


The Girls of Green Gables

by Drizzt_Do_Urden



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Stealth Crossover, Time Skips, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:28:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26740648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drizzt_Do_Urden/pseuds/Drizzt_Do_Urden
Summary: A very bad story on deviantart that I once wrote with an OC of mine and Anne of Green Gables.DON'T ROAST ME IN THE COMMENTS PLEASE I WAS YOUNG!!!!
Relationships: Annabeth Chase & Clarisse La Rue, Marilla Cuthbert & Anne Shirley, Marilla Cuthbert & Matthew Cuthbert & Anne Shirley





	1. Chapter 1

It had been about a year after Anne Shirley had been adopted by the Cuthberts, and so far they were having no luck with the hired boys. One right after the other, they went off to the lobster canneries the moment the Cuthberts got used to them.  
It all seemed lost until one day, while hanging up the laundry to dry, Anne spotted a girl about her age, twelve or so, by the brook, bent over and drinking water out of her cupped hands.  
An ordinary observer, which Anne most certainly was not, would have seen this: a girl garbed in brown breeches, a faded man’s shirt that was slightly big on her, kept in place by an elegant, mahogany-colored waistcoat, and a pair of sturdy brown boots. A Civil War era rapier hung from her right hip. Her hair, underneath a thin white cloth tied around her forehead, was midnight black, wavy, and somewhat disheveled. Her face was nicely heart-shaped, tannish, and somewhat grubby. Her eyes were a somewhat black-like brown and facing down at the ground.  
But Anne, ever the imaginative romantic, was far from an ordinary observer. What our perceptive little protagonist saw was this: that the mystery girl’s skin was not tan but rather a lovely shade of amber. That her eyes were the precious color of luxurious chocolate, and encased by thick, beautiful dark eyelashes. That her mouth had full lips in which a mischievous smirk was itching to escape from; in short, Anne knew at once that this little tomboy was no ordinary soul.  
And right she was, for Anne had barely concluded observing her than the girl, realizing she was not alone, jumped up, turned around, picked up a suitcase Anne hadn’t known was there, and slowly began backing away.  
“It’s alright,” Anne stammered. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve just never seen anyone like you before. Most girls around don’t wear breeches- in fact, I don’t think any girl anywhere in the world wears breeches- at least, not as plain as those are. If I were to wear breeches, I’d rather they be the most radiant breeches ever seen- maybe some made out of satin, or velvet, or silk- yes, a lovely silk, with a delicate flowery embroidery- gold embroidery, or better yet, black silk embroidery. Yes, black silk embroidery, on midnight blue silk breeches. Wouldn’t that be nice? But I’m a girl, so I probably couldn’t. And I don’t want to- dresses are good enough for me. Although the ones I have are rather plain. I do wish I’d get just one dress with puffed sleeves- oh yes, and a flowing train, all in pink- but I can’t wear pink, because I have red hair. Oh, what a curse it is to have red hair. But anyway, what are you doing here?”  
The girl put a hand to her temple and let out a breath.  
  
“You talk too much,” she sighed. “Does anyone ever tell you that?”  
  
Anne lowered her gaze, embarrassed.

“All the time. But you have to talk a lot if you have a lot to say, right?”

Anne extended her right hand.

“I’m Anne Shirley. And you are?”

“John,” the girl replied curtly.

Anne’s eyes widened.

“John? That’s an odd name for a girl.”

“I picked it myself,” John explained. “I was born with a different name- but I don’t like that one. So I chose John instead.”

“Oh,” Anne replied, nodding in understanding, for she too had experience with having unwanted names. “So what brings you to Avonlea?”

“Avonlea? Is that what this place is called?”

“Well, this place right here is called Green Gables,” Anne explained. “But the village is called Avonlea.”

“Ah. Well, it’s a lovely place you’ve got here, Miss Shirley.”

John’s eyes darted towards the road.

“Anyway, I’d best be off. Your parents wouldn’t want you to be standing around talking with an orphan runaway all day now, would they?”

John gestured to the laundry.

“Especially not when there’s chores to do.”

With that, John turned around and began walking towards the road. Unfortunately for her, not being gifted with clairvoyance, she had no idea that just at that moment Matthew Cuthbert was about to return home from Carmody. Thus, when the buggy arrived she was completely unprepared.  
The minute John stepped out into the road, the horse immediately slammed into her, causing her to collapse onto the road, resulting in a sprained ankle, a painful crack in her ribcage, and a nasty bruise on her head.

Shrieking in horror, Anne dropped her basket and immediately ran over to John’s side. Matthew immediately reined the horses, pulling the buggy to a stop.

“Oh my goodness,” Matthew cried, scrambling out of the buggy. “I’m so sorry, boy!”

John lay there, swearing like a truly enraged, drunken sailor. 

“Are you all right?” Anne asked, her hands clenching her apron worriedly.

“I’m fine,” John assured them, attempting to stand back up, “I’m fine- AAAAAH!”

The pain in her twisted ankle and her ribs hit John at once, causing her to collapse once more onto the ground.

“Quick, Matthew, help me get her into the house,” Anne blurted, lifting John via the underside of her arms. Matthew, barely registering that female pronoun, nodded mutely and picked her up by her legs. In that fashion, the two of them resolutely carried her into the parlor, and, much to Marilla Cuthbert’s shock, unceremoniously placed her on the couch.

“Matthew! What is the meaning of this?” she ejaculated, rising from her chair and dropping her sewing.

“I ran into her just as I was coming back from Carmody,” he explained. “The horse knocked her over. She’s in a terrible state.”

“I can see that,” Marilla snapped as John grunted and groaned in agony on the couch.

“I’ll send for a doctor,” Matthew told them. “You two stay here while I’m away.”

With that, he ran back outside, closing the door behind him.

“She’ll be fine,” the doctor assured them all after one last glance at the injured John, who was currently reposing on the couch. “All she needs is a few weeks of rest and recovery and she’ll be back to normal in no time.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Marilla replied, heaving a heavy sigh of relief.

“Well, then I’ll be taking my leave, if you don’t mind.”

The doctor then retrieved his hat and coat and exited the house.

“Fine bit of trouble we’re in,” Marilla murmured to herself, “having to take in a strange little tomboy from Providence knows where!”

“Oh, no, Miss Cuthbert,” John grunted, attempting to sit up as she grabbed at her ribs. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll be back on the road again by dawn tomorrow.”

“Fiddlesticks!” Marilla exclaimed. “The doctor declared you’re to stay in bed for a few weeks, and stay in bed you shall, Miss John. And Providence darn it, but it will not be said that I have no Christian hospitality!”

With that, she hurriedly left the parlor in order to cook dinner. Matthew left as well, probably to unload what he’d bought from Carmody. Anne and John found themselves completely alone.

“So. They’re __not__ your parents.” John observed, as Anne tended to her bandages, “So are you their maid or…”

“Oh no,” Anne replied hastily. “I’m adopted. They almost didn’t- I was sent from the Hopeton orphan asylum by mistake. They wanted a boy, you see, to help on the farm. So when they got me instead, they were quite shocked. They almost gave me away to Mrs. Peter Blewett, but Marilla changed her mind at the last minute and took me in. I’m awfully glad she did. I couldn’t have asked for a better home. And Mrs. Peter Blewett absolutely terrified me. I’ve lived here for about a year now, and that’s been the happiest year of my life. Before this I lived at the Hopeton asylum for four months, a completely miserable four months- there was absolutely no scope for imagination there. Before the asylum I lived for nearly two years with Mrs. Hammond in Marysville, up the river in quite a lonesome little place. I never could have lived there if I didn’t have an imagination.”

“How was this Mrs. Hammond,” John asked with a small smile. “Was she good to you?”

This scrawny red-headed girl beside her was quite a chatterbox, a trait which would have irritated John to death on an ordinary day. She never could stand people who talked too much- it was inefficient. For some reason right now, however, it was quite endearing, especially because when Anne talked her grey-green eyes lit up rather prettily. Or maybe it was just because the chatter was a good distraction from the pain.

“She…meant to be,” Anne stammered, blushing. “I’m sure she meant to be as good and kind as possible. And when people mean to be good to you, you don’t mind if they’re not quite always. She had a good deal to worry her, you know-she had twins three times in succession, and I’m sure it’s very trying to have twins three times in succession, don’t you think?”

John rolled her eyes.

“In other words, she was rotten.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Anne faltered. “She wasn’t- she really wasn’t-”

“You just admitted that she wasn’t ‘quite always’ good to you,” John pointed out.

“Well, she __meant__ to be,” Anne insisted.

“People can __say__ they mean to be good all they want,” John countered. “But none of that matters if they aren’t actually good.”

John scowled.

“Trust me, I know. About a year ago I used to live with this woman Mary Roseworth, and her husband, Thomas, in New York. She __said__ she loved me just as if I was her own, but whenever she saw me, she’d glare at me- never once did she ever look at me in a way that wasn’t completely hostile. Plus, she had a tendency to leave me behind on hunting trips- and the Roseworths had a lot of those. I’ve also survived at least three hunting accidents I have a suspicion were intentional.”

Anne gasped.

“She wanted to __murder__ you?! Why?”

John shrugged, and then cried out in pain from the shrugging.

“I have no idea,” she told Anne, gritting her teeth in pain. “I don’t know what I did to make her hate me that much. But, because of all that, enough was enough, and I had to run away.”

“So she was like a wicked stepmother,” Anne murmured, drawing in a breath. “From one of the stories.”

“Not really,” John corrected. “She wasn’t my stepmother. Mr. Roseworth wasn’t any blood relation to me- he was a friend of my real father, who was a colonel in the army, but he wasn’t my father. Regardless, I wouldn’t want one of those any more than I’d want Mrs. Roseworth or your Mrs. Hammond.”

“I wouldn’t mind a wicked stepmother,” Anne declared. “There’s much more scope for imagination with one of those than with taking care of children for Mrs. Thomas or Mrs. Hammond. Always wondering what they’ll do next, whether or not they’ll use some sort of evil magic- and of course, there’s always a prince at the end of the day, or a fairy godmother. Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a fairy godmother? You’d always have the nicest dresses, in silks and satins and velvets- and they’d all have puffed sleeves, of course. And of course, they’d give you the best Christmas presents, too. And birthday presents.”

“Yeah, except fairy godmothers don’t exist,” John pointed out snidely. “And there aren’t any princes around here. But there __are__ plenty of wicked people-and I’d like to steer clear of those as much as possible.”

John let out a breath and continued,

“Anyway, so what happened to your real parents that made you have to get knocked about by Mrs. Hammond for so long?”

“They…they…” Anne faltered. “They died of scarlet fever when I was a baby.”

“Oh,” John began, not sure of what to say. “I-I’m so sorry.”

* * *

* * *

The young American tomboy was quite the curiosity to both the Cuthberts and Anne at first.

She swore a great deal, a habit which Marilla personally believed quite nasty, and approved of less the more John engaged in it. Yet while against Marilla in that way, she was quite in harmony with Marilla on another, that is, regarding smoking, and their hatred of it.

“Oh, do put that away, Mr. Cuthbert,” John chided as Matthew took out his pipe. “It’s a filthy habit.”

“Quite right, Miss Hernandez,” Marilla agreed, as she sat quilting to John’s right. “A filthy habit indeed.”

John had revealed her birth name to be Josefina Hernandez, but requested to be called John. Matthew obliged her on this request, and so did Anne, despite her thinking that Josefina was an absolutely beautiful name. Marilla, however, refused to.

“Not just filthy,” John continued, “but downright rotten on one’s health. James used to smoke a great deal, and he got a horrible cough as a result of it. Not only that, but he almost died of it. At least, that’s what the doctor suspected.”

“James?” Marilla asked, raising an eyebrow. “Who is this James?”

“One of a band of four thieves I used to live with in New York City. They took me in as a baby and I spent eleven years with them until the Roseworths adopted me.”

“ _ _Thieves__?” Marilla exclaimed. “You lived with thieves?”

“Well, they were the ones that would take me,” John replied, half shrugging. “And besides, they were very nice to me.”

Thus, at first, Marilla did not particularly like John, but as the days passed, the girl grew on her, and as she got to know John, she found herself chalking unusual behavior up to John’s upbringing. Plus, she was finding she rather liked John’s more practical attitude on life. Although she liked Anne, it was refreshing to have someone around who wasn’t constantly daydreaming.

For Matthew, however, it was the opposite. John’s lack of ladylike behavior relaxed him quite a bit, allowing himself to forget she was a girl and talk freely. However, the moment her gender was mentioned he would then clam up as he did around the rest of the female population.

Anne liked John instantly, no ifs, ands, or buts. John was scope for imagination like nothing Anne had ever seen. Anne could and did concoct enough imaginings to fill a book.

One in particular was that John was a fairy princess, whose kingdom had been taken over by an evil vizier, and that John had been forced to learn to use swords and shoot pistols to survive. John was very fond of that one.

“I like it,” she said after Anne had recounted it. “It’s a pack of lies, but it’d be nice if they were true. I wouldn’t mind being a fairy princess. And if it were, and I run this vizier of yours through with my sword, I think I’ll make you head poet at my court.” 

Another fantasy was that the thieves- Enrico, Adok, Hans, and James, as John called them- had not, in fact, taken her in, but stolen her from her rightful family when she was a baby and taken her to New York City. Sometimes in this story John was a fairy princess, but she could just as easily be the daughter of a belted earl, or a wealthy Jewish American businessman, or a Indian rajah, or sultan. Usually the thieves then immediately repented, but the father always died and was replaced by a cruel uncle or stepmother who would be inconvenienced by John’s return.

John hated these sorts of stories with a passion; she would not stand for any bad talk about the thieves who raised her. They were absolute gentlemen, John insisted, despite their occupation.

Yet, although she hated some of Anne’s stories, in general, she liked the rest of them enough that she and Anne were becoming very good friends. Anne was even beginning to think of her as a kindred spirit. John eventually became so fond of Anne that she decided to gift her with the real story, which Anne would find to have even more scope for imagination:

“I was born in Texas, May 3rd, 1865, at the tail end of the war, to a wealthy Tejano woman named Claudia Hernandez, and a Colonel John. I don’t know his last name, I just know he’s my father.”

“His last name must also be Hernandez, though,” Anne interrupted, confused. “Otherwise, how could your name be-”

“They weren’t married,” John explained. “My mother said that very clearly in her letter to me. A letter she put in my basket the day she sent me to New York, alongside this.”

John pulled out of her shirt a gold locket connected to a gold chain Anne now saw around her neck.

“This and the letter are the only things I have of my mother.”

“Oh,” Anne replied, nodding. “I see. I envy you greatly, though. All of I have of my mother is the assurance from Mrs. Thomas that she thought I was a beautiful baby. I’m not so beautiful now, but at any rate, I wish I had something like that. Something pretty. A diamond ring, perhaps, or some old kid gloves. Or maybe a sapphire necklace- no, a ruby necklace. No, a sapphire. Oh, sapphire or ruby, which one should it be? Doesn’t matter though. My parents couldn’t afford either. They were poor as church mice, Mrs. Thomas said.”

“But you know your parents loved you. For all the gold around my neck, I honestly have no clue. The more I read the letter, the more I get confused. But at least I have the letter- and that’s firsthand, not just second-hand information from a woman who knocked me about constantly.”

Anne had told her about Mrs. Thomas, and John disliked her methods even more than she did of Mrs. Hammond’s.

“No, on second thought, your situation’s worse. I have first-hand knowledge and a locket- you just have nasty Mrs. Thomas’s words to go by. Anyway, my mother sent me to New York City when I was a baby, to a friend of hers named Thomas Roseworth. However, the thieves were robbing Mr. Roseworth’s city house the day I arrived, so they took me alongside the other things they stole. And they raised me until I was eleven. One day, I came across Mr. Roseworth, who I was trying to pickpocket- long story- and I accidently dropped my mother’s letter, and he picked it up. I was afraid he would take it from me, and I shouted at him to give it back, but instead he read the whole thing. The moment he was finished he grabbed me and dragged me to his city home. All I had on me was the locket, the letter, and a pistol in my pocket- none of the various presents and sundry the thieves had given me over the years. I was frightened to death- I thought of shooting him, but decided against it for fear of the cops. But once we arrived he explained everything- he was serving in Texas during the war, and befriended my mother there while she was courting my father. And then he gave me the rapier my father used during the war, and then adopted me and took me to live with his family at his country estate. They taught me a great deal of rich people things, and I eventually grew quite fond of Mr. Roseworth. I daresay you will never find another man nicer than him. But eventually I had to leave.”

“Why?” Anne gasped.

“Well, you remember his wife, Mrs. Mary Roseworth, who tried to kill me,” John replied.

Anne nodded.

“That’s partly the reason,” John explained, “But it was also the fact that almost everyone insisted that I had to be a lady. Mr. Roseworth didn’t, but his wife, and his daughters, Janie and Maggie, did. Old Nanny Fishburn, who was in charge of the nursery Maggie, little Tommy, who was about seven, and I lived in, did her fair share of it too. Fifteen-year-old Janie was ever so stuck-up about it, and her twin brother George was forever calling me ‘that dirty little Mexican tomboy’. It just gets to a point where a girl can’t take it any more. Especially when you combine all that with the fact that the mistress of the house hates you for no discernible reason and wants to kill you. So first chance I got, I ran off and stowed away on a cart, attempting to get back to New York City to find Adok, Hans, Enrico, and James.”

John looked down at the parlor floor.

“Only the cart was headed north instead of south. Before I knew it, I ended up in Quebec. I tried going back to the United States, but that didn’t get me anywhere. I just ended up running in circles in the area between Quebec, New Hampshire and Maine. And, recently, New Brunswick, where I took a boat thinking it was headed to New York, but was actually headed to Prince Edward Island.”

John shrugged.

“And now I’m stuck here in your parlor.”

Thus ended the story, and all of Anne’s previous fantasies, and thus was born a treasure trove of new ones too numerous to name.

As John recovered, however, her novelty began to fade. Both Matthew and Marilla adapted to her presence, and she to theirs. Although she had originally planned to get back on the road as soon as she was able, the longer she stayed, the less John wanted to. It began to occur to her, in the latter days of her convalescence, to perhaps stay and help Matthew out on the farm.

When she first proposed this idea to them, Marilla and Matthew balked and refused flat-out. Partially because she was still recovering, and partially because they couldn’t quite wrap their heads around the idea of a __girl__ acting as a farmhand. However, as John’s health got better, and the current farm hand showed more and more signs of running off to the lobster canneries, they eventually had to consider the idea.

“I-I- well, Matthew, i-it’s just not __done__ ,” Marilla said to him one night in the parlor. “Having a __girl__ as a farmhand? It’s just not __done__.”

“Well, if what Anne told me is true, it’s not as if she has many other options,” Matthew pointed out.

Anne had, naturally, told them every detail of John’s history. And, naturally, Marilla and Matthew, being less imaginative and more mature, had immediately become alarmed. 

“Oh, I don’t relish the thought of sending her to an asylum, or worse, on her own, either,” Marilla groaned. “I daresay I don’t think John could survive one minute with that Mrs. Roseworth and I __definitely__ don’t approve of her former guardians. But if we agree to her plan we’d never be able to live it down.”

“True,” Matthew conceded. “But at least with her we wouldn’t have to worry about her running off. I say we take help where we can get it.”

Marilla snorted.

“Why not have __Anne__ plow the fields and harvest the crops then?”

“Well, Anne isn’t exactly the type for farm work,” Matthew pointed out.

“I know,” Marilla snapped. “But taking John in isn’t any wiser.”

“It’s a gamble,” Matthew acknowledged. “But it just might work. Especially when you consider the money aspect.”

“Money aspect?”

“Well, we spend a lot of money on hired boys who just run away,” Matthew informed her. “But if we took John in we wouldn’t need to pay her. With John we’d be saving a lot of money.”

Marilla sighed.

“Alright, Matthew, you win,” she conceded, unable to come up with an argument against such practicality.

And thus John was officially taken on as a farmhand, much to John’s delight and Anne’s sheer joy. The next night John moved her suitcase to Anne’s room, where she was to sleep, and from that point on, John was officially a member of the Cuthbert household. 


	2. Teatime

The next few weeks were a flurry of excitement for Anne and the Cuthberts, though not because of John. The old minister had resigned, and immediately there was a whole slew of candidates aiming to replace him. Anne and Matthew discussed each of them eagerly, but Marilla did not, out of principle. John declined also, but for a different reason.  
It turned out, much to Marilla’s consternation, that John was a devout Catholic, and nothing Marilla could do would make her be otherwise.  
“Enrico took great pride in raising me up the proper faith,” John insisted, “And besides, it was one of my mother’s deepest wishes that I be raised Catholic.”  
This was true; her mother’s letter clearly stated:

  
_Now, as to her guardian: Let me make it clear to you ,sir, that my daughter Josefina is to be raised Catholic. She is not to be allowed to stray from the true faith in any way whatsoever._

  
Low as her opinion was of Enrico and his friends, Marilla could not dream of ignoring the wishes of John’s mother. So a Papist John remained, and when Anne and the Cuthberts went to church, John stayed behind at home and dutifully said her prayers. Which, as it would turn out, was well enough, for it kept John out of the trouble that was yet to come.  
Eventually the church settled on a certain Mr. Allan, whose wife, Mrs. Allan, Anne would come to like a great deal. And whom she would chatter on and on about, much to John’s irritation. After one particularly unending session of chatter, John said dryly as she entered the house,  
“Why don’t you invite her to tea if you like her so much?”  
“That’s a good idea,” Marilla remarked. “They’ve been to almost everyone else but us. Next Wednesday ought to be good. But don’t tell Matthew- if he knew he’d find some excuse to get away that day. He’s going to find it hard to get acquainted to a new minister, and a new minister’s wife will frighten him to death.”  
“I’ll be as silent as the grave,” Anne assured her. “But Marilla, can I make a cake for the occasion?”  
“You can make a layer cake,” Marilla promised.  
Monday and Tuesday were a source of great hustle and bustle, for a minister’s visit was no ordinary thing, and Marilla was determined not to be outdone. John did her best to stay away from the preparations- when her chores were done, she went off to explore the creek, or the village of Avonlea, or hung out with the village boys, whom she was starting to make friends with.  
Wednesday morning came, and up with the sun Anne rose. Unfortunately though, thanks to dabbling in the spring with her friend Diana the previous evening, she had caught a bit of a cold. At breakfast, a worried John insisted she go back to bed.  
“No Protestant lay-priest is worth risking your health,” she declared firmly, but Anne would not be deterred. And so John went out to the fields with Matthew, as was her duty.  
Meanwhile, Anne made her cake. After a bit of anxious prattling to Marilla, she took the cake out of the oven, and, seeing how light and feathery it was, clapped her hands in delight. She gleefully put it together with layers of ruby jelly and quite possibly dared to imagine that Mrs. Allan would like, nay, love the cake and ask for a second piece!  
Once the cake was done Anne, with Marilla’s grudging permission, she decorated the table most beautifully with ferns and wild roses, in such an arrangement that had the minister and his wife gasping over its beauty in chorus. Marilla told them grimly that it was Anne’s doing, and Mrs. Allan’s approving smile sent Anne into the seventh heaven of delight.  
Matthew was there, if only for a few moments, and if only to get some food. He was quite a ball of nerves the entire time; the only reason he did not bolt out of the room entirely was due to Anne and John’s superior coaxing. So he drank tea, ate food, chatted with the minister, but never said a word to Mrs. Allan. That, however, was not to be expected, especially considering he had only welcomed another strange female into his life not long before. John, the aforementioned strange female, after a few minutes or so, shrewdly took him back outside to do some more work.  
Nevertheless, all was merry until Anne’s layer cake was passed. Mrs. Allan, already having had a few sweets, would have declined, had Marilla not seen Anne’s disappointed expression. Marilla told the young minister’s wife with a smile,  
“Oh, you must take a piece. Anne made it just for you.”  
Mrs. Allan laughed and obediently took a piece, as did Marilla and the minister. Upon taking her first bite however, Mrs. Allan grimaced, appearing as if she had just eaten a mouthful of manure. Nevertheless, she steadily and politely continued to eat the cake.  
Marilla, ever the shrewd woman, hastened to taste the cake.  
“Anne Shirley!” she exclaimed. “What did you put in that cake?”  
“Nothing but what the recipe said,” Anne cried, a look of anguish on her face.  
“Mrs. Allan,” Marilla insisted. “Don’t eat it. Anne, taste the cake yourself. What flavoring did you use?”  
“Vanilla,” Anne blurted, her face scarlet with shame after tasting the cake. “Only vanilla. It must have been the baking powd-“  
“Go and bring me the bottle of vanilla you used,” Marilla ordered.  
Anne fled to the pantry and returned with a small bottle labeled, “Best Vanilla”. Marilla took it, uncorked it, smelled it.  
“Mercy on us, Anne, you’ve flavored it with anodyne liniment. I broke the liniment bottle last week and poured what was left into an old empty vanilla bottle.”  
Marilla frowned.  
“I suppose I should have warned you,” she admitted. “It’s partly my fault- but for pity’s sake you should have smelled it!”  
Anne dissolved into tears.  
“I couldn’t! I had such a cold!” she sobbed. “Oh, I should have listened to John!”  
She then fled to the east gable chamber, cast herself on the bed and wept.  
Presently a light step sounded on the stairs and somebody entered the room.  
“Oh, Marilla,” Anne moaned without looking up. “I’m disgraced forever.”  
She then went on to wax sobbing poetic about how her reputation in Avonlea would be permanently marred by this accident, and her worries that people would think she tried to poison the minister’s wife. She then begged Marilla to explain to Mrs. Allan that the liniment wasn’t poisonous and that she meant no harm.  
“Suppose you tell Mrs. Allan herself,” a merry voice said.  
Anne flew up and immediately found Mrs. Allan standing by her bed, smiling.  
“My dear girl, don’t cry,” Mrs. Allan said, genuinely disturbed by Anne’s tears, “it’s just a mistake.”  
“Oh no, only I could make such a mistake. I wanted that cake so nice for you.”  
Mrs. Allan kindly assured Anne that she appreciated the kindness just as much as if it had turned out alright, and expressed polite interest in Anne’s flower garden. With this Anne was coaxed into being led down and comforted. Nothing more was said about the liniment cake, and on the whole Anne found she had enjoyed that evening, despite the incident.  
Mrs Allan apparently had too, as Anne was soon to discover.  
“I’m invited to tea at the manse tomorrow!” Anne cried a few days later after a run to the post office.  
Holding up the envelope eagerly, she exclaimed,  
“Oh, Marilla, oh Marilla, just look at it! ‘Miss Anne Shirley, Green Gables.’ That is the first time I was ever called Miss! Such a thrill it gave me! I shall cherish it forever amongst my treasures!”  
“The _first_ time? And Marilla calls my former guardians rude.” John remarked snidely from one of the sofas in the parlor.   
“If you mean the gang of ruffians in New York, then rudeness is the least of their vices,” Marilla yelled back.   
Turning back to Anne, she said,  
“Mrs. Allan intends to have all of the members of her Sunday school class to tea in turn. Why, she even intended to ask John, before I informed her John wasn’t in her class.”  
“And well I should not be,” John exclaimed. “What sort of Catholic would I be if I was?”  
Ignoring John, Marilla continued,  
“And then she asked why not, and I told her John was a Papist. She’ll probably ask John to tea regardless, though. My point is, do learn to take things calmly, child.”  
Taking things calmly was not a thing Anne did, however. No matter how much Marilla might try to make her, it would never happen. The Galatea of the girl with prim deportment, the Pygmalion Marilla desired to make in Anne would never fully take form, much to Marilla’s sadness. But beneath that sadness was a liking of Anne the way she truly was, a liking Marilla would never admit to.  
After Matthew informed her that he feared it would be a rainy day tomorrow, Anne plunged into the depths of misery. A misery she would have carried to bed that night, had it not been for John.  
“Don’t be so glum, Anne,” John said, attempting desperately to cheer her up. “At least you get to go to tea with her.”  
Her statement had no effect. Anne continued to sulk, much to John’s dismay. But then, spying her suitcase, John declared,  
“Here. I have something for you.”  
And with that, she walked over to her suitcase and opened it up, perking Anne’s interest. Although by now it had become part of their shared room, Anne rarely saw it opened. With her slender fingers, John took out a dainty little pink silk ribbon, closed the suitcase, and walked back to Anne.  
“I want you to have this,” John said as she handed the ribbon to Anne. “Wear it tomorrow to the manse.”  
Anne eyed the beautiful ribbon, letting her fingers run over its entirety, and gasped,  
“I-I can’t.”  
“Why?” John exclaimed. “Don’t you like it?”  
“Oh yes,” Anne blurted out. “I do. It’s so beautiful, so elegant. It’s the fanciest thing I’ve ever owned. It’s just…I’m red-headed.”  
John rolled her eyes.  
“I can see that!”  
“Well…” Anne stammered. “Red-haired people just aren’t supposed to wear pink-”  
“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard!” John cried, shooting up and placing her hands on her hips. “Who told you that?”  
“I…I…”  
"Was it Mrs. Thomas?” John demanded. “The one who slapped you around like a rag doll? That Hammond lady who worked you to the bone?”  
“No,” Anne replied, “It wasn’t either of them.”  
“Then who?”  
“I…I don’t know,” Anne confessed. “I just…I’ve always known that…”  
“No matter, then,” John decided. “It’s a silly idea, regardless. Probably made up by mean old spinsters who think that sweets should be against the law and that fun should be banned. Wear it if you like, Anne. If you don’t want it, I can go out to Carmody and pawn it.”  
“Oh, no, no, no,” Anne insisted, clutching the ribbon to her chest. “I’m keeping this. I shall savor this forever amongst my treasures. Thank you, thank you, so much my dear friend. Gaining two treasures in one day! Wow! What an astonishing thing! I feel like very soon I’ll be showered in diamonds and pearls! Not likely I realize, but imagine if I was. I don’t think I could possibly store all of them. Just where would I put them? Eventually I’d have to sell some of them. It’d be awfully tragic, though, giving them away when the people who gave them were so kind to shower me with them in the first place, don’t you think?”  
John half smiled.  
“If your mind puts diamonds and pearls just one step up from courteous invitations and hair ribbons, I think you have a low standard for what counts as treasure.”

* * *

* * *

  
The next morning, Anne’s spirits were at their highest, the pink silk ribbon proudly tying her scarlet braid. Contrary to Matthew’s warning, it was an absolute splendid day outside, and she was, of course, invited to tea. She was wearing her best clothes, and all of this combined made everything absolutely perfect. Except for one thing.  
“Oh, Marilla, I feel so anxious,” Anne confessed as she washed the breakfast dishes. “What if I shouldn’t behave properly! I’ve never had tea at a manse before! I’m not sure I know all the rules of etiquette, although I’ve been studying the rules given in the Etiquette Department of the Family Herald ever since I came here. I’m so afraid I’ll do something silly or forget to do something I should do-”  
“You’ll be fine,” John remarked from her place at the table. “From what I hear, she likes you already. Besides- etiquette is useless without a good disposition, and you’ve got the nicest disposition ever.”  
“You must have met very few nice people if you think I’m nice,” Anne murmured to herself.  
“The trouble is,” Marilla remarked, “is that you’re thinking too much of yourself. Just think of what would be nicest for Mrs. Allan.”  
“You’re right, Marilla,” Anne replied. “I’ll try to think of myself as little as possible.”  
Self-obsession or no, Anne would end up having a grand old time at the manse.   
She happily skipped all the way to the minister’s house and was met by Mrs. Allan herself at the door. The young minister’s wife was dressed in a gown of pale pink organdy, with dozens of frills and elbow sleeves. To Anne she looked just like an angel.  
“Miss Shirley!” Mrs. Allan exclaimed softly. “I’m so glad you came!”  
“I’m awfully delighted to be here, Mrs. Allan,” Anne gushed, her face turning slightly red.  
“Come in, come in,” Mrs. Allan insisted. Anne obediently entered the manse and followed Mrs. Allan into the parlor, where she sat down opposite Mrs. Allan on a sofa. In the center of the table was a tiered cake stand piled with crab sandwiches on top, strawberry scones underneath the sandwiches, and apple rose tarts underneath the scones. Beside the cake stand was a tea tray filled with the most delicate china patterned with lovely pink flowers.  
The parlor itself, given that it belonged to a minister, was rather plain by most standards- nothing but a few of your standard white sofa and chairs, a small rug on the floor, a cabinet filled with the world’s ugliest china on the left, and an old piano to the right. The walls were bare, and the only truly impressive thing about it besides the piano was an enormous window straight across from the pair of them, overlooking some rosebushes. But to Anne, who had not seen the inside of any particularly impressive parlors it was one of the most beautiful places in the world.  
Sitting on the sofa was a plain-faced, meek little girl with brown curls, freckles, and a stylish white dress with puffed sleeves. Anne was immediately envious of the dress.  
“This, Miss Shirley,” Mrs. Allan said, gesturing at the girl, “ is Miss Lauretta Bradley from the White Sands Sunday school. Miss Bradley,”  
Mrs. Allan gestured to Anne,  
“this is Miss Anne Shirley.”  
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Shirley,” Lauretta stammered.  
“And what a glorious pleasure it is to meet you,” Anne replied.  
“Do, sit,” Mrs. Allan insisted, gesturing to the sofa.  
Anne obeyed, sitting to Lauretta’s right. Mrs. Allan sat herself down in an armchair to Anne’s right, picked up the teapot, and poured Anne some tea. She then put the teapot down, picked her teapot up, and took a sip. Anne delicately poured some milk into her tea and then added a spoonful of sugar. After that, she then took a dainty sip, marveling at how wonderful it tasted.  
“Is it true you’re an orphan?” Lauretta asked, nervously gripping her teacup.  
“Yes,” Anne replied, puzzled at why such a question should be so terrifying to ask.  
Lauretta slowly and timidly reached for a crab sandwich.  
“How, exactly, did you become an orphan?”  
“Well, I was born in Bolingbroke, Nova Scotia, to Walter and Bertha Shirley. They were teachers- well, Bertha used to be a teacher- but she gave it up after marrying my father, of course. They were poor as church mice and lived in a teeny little yellow house, which I’ve never seen but have imagined thousands of times. It’s got honeysuckle over the parlor window, lilacs in the front yard, lilies of the valley inside the gate, and muslin curtains in all the windows.”  
Mrs. Allan, listening attentively to this account, with her worldly, grown-up mind, wondered how on earth they were to afford all that, especially if they were indeed as poor as Anne said. However, she said absolutely nothing about this, for fear of spoiling the innocent girl’s happiness.  
“That’s the house I was born in. Mrs. Thomas said I was the homeliest baby she ever saw, but Mother thought I was perfectly beautiful. I’m glad she was satisfied with me; I don’t want to think how horrible it’d be if I was a disappointment. Anyhow, she died three months later of scarlet fever, and Father died four days later of fever as well. That left me an orphan and folks were at their wits’ end-”  
“Who’s Mrs. Thomas?” Mrs. Allan interrupted.  
“Oh, she was the woman who came in to scrub,” Anne explained, as she reached for a scone and began eating it. “And the one who took me in, despite being poor and having a drunken husband. She brought me up by hand.”  
“Why did the servant take you in?” Lauretta asked, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t you have any relatives?”  
“Oh, no,” Anne told her. “They hadn’t any relatives living, and both came from far away. So Mrs. Thomas took me in, and then Mr. and Mrs. Thomas moved away from Bolingbroke to Marysville, and I lived with them until I was eight years old. I helped look after the children- there were four of them younger than me- and I can tell you they took a lot of looking after.”  
_The poor thing,_ Mrs. Allan thought to herself. After all, what kind of guardian forces a child less than eight years old to work as a nursemaid? Not any true Christian, that was for sure. Sensing with her keen instincts that this was a story of nothing but neglect and abuse, Mrs. Allan immediately decided to change the subject.  
“Speaking of family,” Mrs. Allan interjected, “How is your mother, Miss Bradley?”  
“Not very well,” Lauretta moaned, sighing as she reached for her teacup. “She’s still quite sick.”  
“Oh,” Mrs. Allan replied, “That’s quite awful.”  
"Very awful,” Anne agreed.  
With that, the three of them continued to have polite conversation somewhere in that vein; discussion of the weather, the state of the Cuthberts’ and the Bradleys’ crops, etc. Thus, with that sort of pleasant, meaningless chitchat, each of them following the rules of etiquette to a T, and the excellent tea snacks, it was an altogether lovely, elegant tea, one which Anne would always fondly remember.  
After the tea, Mrs. Allan walked over to the piano, and began to play an old hymn, beautifully singing it as she did. After a few minutes she asked Lauretta and Anne to sing along, and the three had a nice little chorus.  
When the hymn was done, Mrs. Allan clapped.  
“My, you have quite a good voice, Miss Shirley. You ought to join the Sunday school choir after this.”  
Anne blushed, for although she had longed to sing in that choir, she had always felt it was an honor she could never receive.  
“Speaking of choirs,” Lauretta interrupted, “I’m afraid I have to leave early. There’s a big concert at the White Sands Hotel tonight and my sister’s been asked to recite at it.”  
“Really?” Mrs. Allan asked.  
“Yes. The Americans give a concert there every fortnight in aid of the Charlottetown hospital. They ask a lot of White Sands people to recite-I expect I’ll be asked myself one day.”  
Anne stared at the young girl in awe, amazed at her confidence. Mrs. Allan thought the young girl rather prideful for such an assumption, but politely said nothing. With that, they said their goodbyes and Miss Bradley took her leave of them.  
“I wish some Americans would ask me to recite,” Anne confessed. “Say-John’s an American!”  
“Who’s John?”  
“Oh, she’s another orphan girl who came to live with us recently in order to help Matthew on the farm,” Anne explained. “You might have seen her briefly when you came over to tea at Green Gables.”  
“Oh. Miss Josefina Hernandez. The Papist,” Mrs. Allan said, putting the pieces together. “Do you really call her John?”  
“Yes,” Anne replied. “She prefers that name, although I don’t get why. Josefina is a such beautiful name- much less common and a thousand times prettier than my own name, if I do say so myself. Still, I understand what it’s like to be burdened by a name you aren’t quite fond of. I used to imagine my name was Geraldine when I was younger, but now I like to imagine it’s Cordelia.”  
“You said she came from America?” Mrs. Allan asked.  
“Oh yes, she was traveling back to New York, but she came here by accident. Just like myself, really. You see, before I came here a year ago, I lived in the orphan asylum at Hopeton for four months. Marilla and Matthew wanted a boy, but the orphanage sent me by mistake. They ended up keeping me regardless, and for that I’ll always be grateful. But I’d rather talk about John’s story- hers is every so much more romantic than mine.”  
And with that, Anne told Mrs. Allan the same story John had told her, to which Mrs. Allan listened with great concern. Mrs. Allan, being full grown and worldlier than twelve-year-old Anne, cared not a whit for how “romantic” certain elements might be. Rather, she became quite disturbed by those “romantic” elements, as most grown-ups would be. Illegitimacy! Raised by thieves! Racist adoptive siblings! Attempted murder at the hands of an adoptive mother!  
As to that last one, which neither Anne nor John seemed to think there was absolutely no reason behind, a reason most assuredly came to Mrs. Allan’s mind, bit by bit. First there was the fact that Mr. Thomas Roseworth was serving in Texas at the exact same time as John’s “father”, and was a “friend” of Miss Claudia Hernandez, John’s mother. Then there was the fact that Miss Claudia Hernandez sent John as an infant to the Roseworth mansion to be raised, with a letter most probably addressed to Mr. Thomas Roseworth. Then, the immediate decision of Mr. Thomas Roseworth to adopt John eleven years later upon discovering her.  
All this pointed to one possible theory- that John’s father might or might not be none other than Mr. Thomas Roseworth himself. And that that same thought had crossed poor Mrs. Roseworth’s mind, and that was the impetus for the murder.  
Utterly disturbed by this conclusion, Mrs. Allan immediately changed the subject, demanding to know about Anne’s history instead.  
And so Anne did tell her, briefly about her life with the Thomases and the Hammonds, the imaginary friends, Katie Maurice and Violetta, that she used to have while living with those family respectively, and her struggles with geometry. At that last one Mrs. Allan laughed and confessed that she had been a dunce at geometry as well.

  
Meanwhile, quite a few miles south, in a country manor in the state of New York, lay evidence that Mrs. Allan’s conclusion was correct. In regards to the state of Mrs. Mary Roseworth’s mind, that is.  
Mrs. Mary Roseworth, a young, slender woman with white-blond hair from whom jealousy had stolen much of beauty and of mind, was in her husband’s office, perusing the letters on his desk. It was a nasty habit of hers which she had acquired several years ago, ever since Mr. Roseworth had engaged in an affair with her former friend Jenny Marston.  
The letters on her husband’s desk were of the usual sort. Some were business letters, others more incriminating. One was sending money to Mary’s former lady’s maid, in order to help her support her and Mr. Roseworth’s illegitimate son Edmund. Another was that week’s pay for Billy the boot-blacking boy, who was also Mr. Roseworth’s illegitimate son with a former parlor maid of theirs named Lily. Another was a letter to the scullery maid, asking her to come to his bedroom that night and sending his love to their illegitimate three-year-old daughter, Agatha.  
Such letters would have shocked any other woman right out of their mind, but Mrs. Roseworth had become desensitized to this sort of thing, her mind already having been broken by her husband’s various infidelities. That, alongside the knowledge that no woman, especially not Mary herself, could every fully capture his love, and that to him, all women were merely sexual playthings.  
All women, that is, except for that one. Claudia Hernandez, his one true love, who he had met in Texas so many years ago and never seen since, but still, after all this time, was desperately, utterly, in love with.  
And what should Mrs. Roseworth happen to stumble upon but a letter from this very woman?  
_Dear Thomas_ , the letter began.  
_In your last letter you informed me that my dear little Josefina has been missing these past few months. While you have my utmost thanks for taking her in, belated as that event was, you must understand how utterly devastated I am to hear such news. I half fear that she is dead somewhere in a gutter, rotting in a.. No. I do not wish to think about it. I was never much of a mother to her, but every day that I am alive I think of her and pray to God for her safety and happiness._  
 _Please, Thomas, find my little Josefina, if you can, and keep her safe. As a father of four children yourself, surely you understand my anxiety._  
 _May God keep you, and her, in his grace and protect you both from harm._  
 _From,_  
 _Claudia_  
Mrs. Roseworth crumpled up the note in her hands, muttering,  
“I will find her, you slut. I will find her, and kill her.”


	3. The Chimera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -yeah, I know that technically a demigod would have killed more monsters by the age of twelve, but this is my story, alright?

Meanwhile, at about the same time as Mrs. Roseworth’s dramatic espionage and Anne’s delightful little tea party, John was facing an existential crisis. A crisis she had been facing for quite a while.

While the Cuthberts, alongside the rest of Avonlea, were distracted by the need to replace a new minister, John did her farm chores, said her prayers, and, despite being quite foul-mouthed and sarcastic, was respectful to her employers. All and all, as Matthew was pleased to see and Marilla grudgingly acknowledged, John was as good a farmhand as any boy, and much more loyal to boot. Or so it seemed.

For, in her brief time at Green Gables, John had discovered that farm chores were unbelievably boring. True, given the lack of cops out for her arrest and murderous adoptive mothers, she was the safest she’d ever been. However, she was also the most __bored__. The most exciting thing to happen as of yet was that tea party with the Allans- which she’d only attended for a few minutes. Even then it had been still quite tedious (she had not been there to bear witness to the liniment cake catastrophe, and everyone involved had agreed to not tell her about it). Her employers were not exactly exciting company; Marilla was your typical sharp-tongued moralistic spinster, and Matthew, despite being generally comfortable around her, was not exactly talkative.

Anne was quite interesting, what with her mile-a-minute way of talking, extremely appreciative, over-imaginative personality. However, listening to someone go on and on about the day’s events, no matter how interesting or grand the way Anne talked about it was, got tiresome quickly. And as charming as the fantasies Anne’s overactive imagination spun were, they had some very common themes, such as wealthy people or beauty or fairies. And it was more than a little bit frustrating when Anne insisted John join in on the pretending. A request John was never too happy to acquiesce, for in her view, a little imagination was good, but too much led to disaster. Given Anne’s many imagination-born mishaps, such as her accidentally emptying some skim milk into a basket of yarn balls as opposed to the pigs’ bucket, or falling into the brook, John couldn’t help but think her theory was correct.

So, did she really want to spend the rest of her existence doing farm chores for a spinster and an aging bachelor, and be bored out of her skull? And in a place where she had absolutely no friends or kin, and where everyone save her employers was a complete stranger? A safe life, it was, perhaps even a long life, but a very dull life indeed.

Or perhaps John should say her goodbyes to Anne and the Cuthberts and head back to New York. There she could reunite with Adok, James, Enrico, and Hans, have her old life back, let everything go back to the way it was before Mr. Roseworth. A solid plan.

Except…that plan was the same plan that had put her in this predicament in the first place. John hated to admit it, but she had no sense of direction. Even she could somehow manage to navigate correctly this time, almost anything could have happened to her old comrades these past few months. For all she knew, they could be dead or rotting in jail. Plus, Mrs. Mary Roseworth just might be looking for her there.

John could strike out for Texas and try to find her real parents. Again, though, there was that same problem of having no sense of direction- she could try for Texas and end up in the North Pole. Not only that, but even if she succeeded- there was a reason her mother had shipped her off to New York in the first place. And maybe that reason wasn’t just to avoid scandal. What if her mother didn’t want her- what if Claudia Hernandez’s first reaction upon seeing her was to scream and beg her to leave? Not to mention, her knowledge of Claudia’s whereabouts was years old. What if Claudia had married or joined a convent? And of course, John had no idea where her father was- she didn’t even know his last name! Reunion with her parents was a bust, as it always had been.

John sighed. Things had been much simpler back in New York City-there was none of this confusion about the future. Back then, her past was set in stone, unchangeable and inaccessible. Adok, Enrico, James, and Hans were her family, and the present and future were directly tied up together via simply stealing and surviving. That, and attending Mass with Enrico.

Goodness, it had been so long since she’d attended a proper Mass. Back in New York, she’d attended Mass at the local church with Enrico every Sunday. At the Roseworths’ country manor, Mr. Roseworth had hired a personal Catholic priest to attend to John’s religious needs. Mrs. Mary Roseworth had objected, of course, as she objected to virtually anything that would make John happy. But Mr. Roseworth was the head of the family, not she, and thus the priest was hired regardless. He was a nice Irish fellow who John came to know as Father McClellan, and he provided Mass for her and a few of the Irish servants in the dining room once a week. He was also who she confessed her sins to, alongside a great deal of her private thoughts. 

__If only Father McClellan was here__ , she thought as she continued to sow the crop alongside Matthew. He’d know exactly what to do. Back at the Roseworth manor, he’d proven to have a knack for coming up with the best possible solution to any problem. Any problem aside from Mrs. Mary Roseworth’s murderous tendencies, that was. He’d always had a bad habit of going rather quiet when she asked for help on that endeavor.

Alas, Father McClellan was __not__ here. Neither was Enrico, or Adok, or James, or Hans, or even Mr. Roseworth. John was all alone; she had no one but herself to make decisions for her. A fact which was both freeing and frightening all at once.

“Miss Hernandez, you seem awfully quiet,” Marilla remarked as she lifted her teacup to her lips and took a sip.

Jolted out of her existential reverie, John looked up at Marilla and said,

“I do?”

“Well, you’re not nearly as chatty as Anne, which is nice,” Marilla replied. “But staring out at the window and daydreaming isn’t exactly like you either.”

“I…I just don’t know what to do,” John confessed.

“Do about what?”

“Well…about what to do next. Do I stay here, or do I go back to New York? Don’t get me wrong, it’s really nice here, it’s just…not very exciting. And I don’t know anyone here. And in New York I do…but they could be dead for all I-”

“I should think life as a farmhand would be a great deal better for a young girl than life amongst brigands and thieves,” Marilla harrumphed. 

“They were not bad people,” John insisted, pounding her right fist on the table. “True, they might not have been the most honest men in the world, but they were good to me. They were __nothing__ but good to me.”

Marilla raised an eyebrow.

“Good to you? __Really__? Tell me, did they make sure to send you to the finest American schools money could buy, or did your education mostly consist of a dozen ways to pick someone’s pocket?”

John’s jaw dropped.

“Pick someone’s- they didn’t teach me to steal for their own amusement, if that’s what you mean!” John retorted. “They did it because that’s how you survive on the streets. Same with learning how to shoot and aim a gun. And as a matter of fact __they__ did give an education. They taught me how to speak English, German, Spanish, __and__ Polish, for starters.”

Marilla’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Wow,” she replied, stunned, “that __is__ impressive.”

“You’re damn right it is,” John agreed.

She took a deep breath, and sighed.

“In all honesty though, I’ll admit, they weren’t exactly learned professors,” John confessed. “But they did teach me my reading and writing and arithmetic all by themselves, though.”

“Did you ever actually go to any kind of school, though?” Marilla asked, her curiosity starting to overcome her skepticism.

“I started going to the parochial school every so often after I turned six,” John replied. “And afterwards I practiced the lessons I learned there at home.”

“Define ‘every so often’.”

“About once or twice every week,” John replied, shrugging. “When they needed to drop me off someplace before a big robbery.”

“Hmm,” Marilla mused to herself as she poured herself another cup of tea. “Just as I thought.”

“Well, I’m willing to bet my education was a thousand times better than Anne’s ever was,” John countered as she took a scone and bit into it. “Those nasty Thomases and Hammonds probably never let her see the inside of a schoolhouse, let alone study there, what with all the drudgery __they__ forced on her.”

“As a matter of fact,” Marilla snapped. “Anne did __indeed__ go to school. In a real schoolhouse, before you get saucy with me, young lady. She went in the spring and fall when she was with Mrs. Thomas, and she went when she was at the orphanage in Hopeton.”

Of course, Anne’s schooling with Mrs. Thomas had only been for the last year she’d stayed with Mrs. Thomas, and Anne had only been to the asylum for four months. But Marilla didn’t dare admit that to the snarky little tomboy in front of her, who would doubtless find some way to twist that knowledge to her advantage. As useful and level-headed John was, she was far less pliant than Anne. But then, did she have any cause to be? Marilla and Matthew were her employers, after all, not her parents.

“I just don’t know what to do with the girl,” Marilla complained to Matthew as she cleaned up the dishes later that night. “True, she’s useful, and a thousand times more sensible than Anne, but she has all the manners of a pirate. She’s uncouth, saucy, and-”

Matthew couldn’t help but chuckle a bit.

“What?” Marilla cried, turning her head sharply behind her towards Matthew. “What’s so funny?”

“Well, I could say she’s quite a bit like you, Marilla,” Matthew replied.

“Nonsense,” Marilla snapped. “I am much more refined than that brat will ever-”

“Not in the manners and deportment part, no,” Matthew explained. “But in the sharp-tongued and hard part, certainly. Anne’s all sweetness and softness, and John’s all toughness and saucy remarks. Mayhap you don’t get on with her because she’s too much like you. Opposites attract and all that.”

"Stuff and nonsense,” Marilla replied. “Stuff and nonsense.”

Meanwhile, in their shared room, John and Anne were playacting, yet again. Anne was firm in her belief that John should use her imagination more, despite John’s stated belief that imagination wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be.

“Having no imagination at all is far worse than having too much,” Anne had insisted. But as much John disagreed with this statement, she couldn’t help but find it increasingly difficult to say no. Silly as they were, Anne’s fantasies were charming and fun, and partaking in them was quite harmless.

“As thanks for my rescue from the dragon,” Anne said loftily, holding John’s rapier in her right hand as she tapped John’s shoulders with its blade, “I dub thee Lady John, knight of the fairy kingdom.”

Anne lowered her sword, sheathed it, and placed it on the bed.

“You may now rise, Lady John.”

John rose from her knees, bowed, and replied, trying not to laugh but failing,

“I thank you, my lady queen, for this gracious honor you have bestowed upon me. I…I swear to defend,”

John chuckled.

“I swear to defend the fairy kingdom for the rest of my days.”

Just then they heard a noise coming from outside that sounded like something roaring.

“What-what was that?” Anne cried.

“It must be a beast of some sort,” John guessed.

“A __beast__?”

John took her sword from the bed, buckled it on, and then rushed to the corner where she kept her suitcase. She took her pistol, loaded it with the few bullets she had left (traveling alone could get quite dangerous), and walked toward the door.

“Stay here,” she commanded. “Matthew and I will take care of it.”

And with that she left, rushed down the stairs and darted towards the kitchen. There she found a trembling Marilla anxiously clutching a Bible, and Matthew loading a rifle.

“I…I saw it out the window,” Marilla explained. “It’s the most frightful thing. It’s got a lion’s head, a goat’s body, and a snake’s tail with a snake’s head at the end!”

“A Chimera,” John gasped. “I…I read a story about a creature like that, once. Back in the library at Roseworth manor. Mr. Roseworth was teaching me the classics. Or, that’s what he called them, anyway.”

John let out a sharp breath.

“Never in my wildest dreams could I ever imagine such a thing was real.”

“Well, whatever it is, you and Matthew need to go out and kill it,” Marilla snapped, apparently having recollected herself. “It’s setting fire to the crops.”

“Right away, Miss Cuthbert,” John replied, and with that, she and Matthew went out towards the fields to confront the Chimera.

Nearly a quarter of the field was on fire, as red-hot flames poured from the Chimera’s mouth and onto Matthew’s crop. It appeared not to notice either Matthew or John, instead looking rather intent on destroying the farm. Matthew cocked his rifle, aimed it at the creature’s head, and fired it. The bullet instead went into the creature’s shoulder, wounding it.

The Chimera turned, roared and rushed towards Matthew. John pushed Matthew out of the way as the creature continued to run and burn down the field. Matthew fired again on the creature, this time on its leg. It missed and went straight into the inferno. The creature, having heard the gunshot, rushed towards them and knocked Matthew down, Matthew’s rifle falling to the ground as it did. It clawed at Matthew’s chest and then bit Matthew in the shoulder. Just as it was about to kill Matthew, John drew her pistol, and fired a bullet into its side.

The creature roared, turned towards John, and leapt at her. John drew her sword and stabbed the Chimera in the heart with it. She withdrew her sword, and the creature fell onto the ground, bleeding from its heart. Then, much to John’s shock, it got back up, spewing venom onto the ground as it did. John turned and fled, the Chimera chasing her across the field as she did.

__Think__ , John thought to herself, __how did the hero kill it in the story?__

And then John remembered. Bellerophron had killed it with lead balls. He’d thrown them into the creature’s mouth and it had suffocated.

__But I don’t have any lead balls__ , she thought to herself. __How am I-__

But she did have lead bullets.

John turned, whipped out her pistol, cocked it, and aimed it at the creature’s mouth. She then fired several shots into the creature’s mouth, all of which landed. The Chimera roared a final roar and then collapsed onto the ground, dead at last.

John rushed towards Matthew, knelt by his side, and examined him.

“Are you okay?” she cried.

“I…I think so,” Matthew replied. “I might need a doctor, though.”

John glanced up at the door, which was flung open, and Marilla was standing in the doorway, apparently having watched the whole thing.

“He needs a doctor!” John exclaimed.

“I heard,” Marilla said bluntly. “I’ll fetch one right away.”

“He’ll be alright,” the doctor assured them, closing up his bag. “He just needs a bit of rest.”

John shook her head.

“I don’t know where he’ll find time for that rest,” she said. “The creature tore up quite a bit of crop. It’ll take ages-”

“Don’t worry about the crop,” Matthew croaked as he lay in bed. “The crop can wait. First-the adoption.”

“Adoption?” John exclaimed.

“Yes,” Marilla replied. “Adoption. Matthew and I have been talking- he thinks we ought to adopt you as opposed to simply employing you. I myself have mixed feelings about it.”

“Why?” Anne asked. “I think it would be wonderful.”

John was not so thrilled. Adoption? She’d known that the Cuthberts would be dismayed to lose their farmhand, and it had seemed that the Cuthberts were starting to like her, but adoption? She was amazed Matthew would even consider it.

“At any rate, starting in two weeks, you’ll be attending school alongside Anne, Miss Hernandez,” Marilla declared.

John’s jaw dropped.

“You heard me girl,” Marilla said. “You’re going to school. I thought it would be nice for you to experience a __consistent__ form of education.”

Marilla winked.

“What on earth does she mean by that?” Anne wondered, bewildered.

“Never mind,” John told her, scowling.

“Now, off to bed, you two,” Marilla ordered. “It’s late.”

The next day, all the men in the area pitched in to help restore Matthew’s fields to normal. Word quickly got out about the Chimera, and soon everyone in Avonlea was lining up to see its body. Marilla was not pleased about this, and not, wanting fame to go to John’s head, gave her and Anne permission to spend the day playing with Diana Barry, far away from all the commotion. And so Anne and John went over to the Barry household, where Anne introduced John and Diana to each other. At John’s suggestion, the three girls skipped rocks over a body of water commonly known as Barry’s pond, but which Anne had named the Lake of Shining Waters.

But not even something so innocent could escape the gossip, at least not entirely. After the skipping of rocks, a game of tag and a game of Blindman’s Buff, the three girls sat down to tea, where Diana asked this question:

“I heard you killed some kind of creature last night. Is it true?”

John nodded.

“It was a Chimera, and I shot it several times in the mouth.”

Diana gasped in awe, her dark brown eyes widening.

* * *

* * *

“She’s in Canada,” Mary Roseworth gasped, as she looked into her mirror, where in the glass, the words __Avonlea, Prince Edward Island, Canada__ were shining in gold. “Some…village in __Canada__.”

Mary took a deep breath as she set down the hand mirror and glanced at the mirror above her vanity. She couldn’t believe it. The tracking spell on the Chimera had worked. It really __worked__.

And now all she had to do was tell Thomas, get him to fetch the girl, and…the little __mestiza__ would be hers. All hers. She’d be able to kill the one issue of Thomas and the one woman he truly loved. Mary could see it now- Josefina’s little grave, with a big, ornate headstone Thomas had paid for, Thomas sobbing over it alongside that hussy Claudia, both weeping as their sins were laid bare for all the world to see.

Now…to find a plausible explanation for her knowledge. One her husband would believe.

Perhaps…she’d received a letter from Josefina, one apologizing for running away and telling them she’d been beggared and made destitute, or that she’d found a job somewhere and that her employers were cruel, wicked people, begging Mary to come and take her home.

No. That was no good. Josefina would never write to Mary, everyone in the house knew that. Plus, what they found her and she turned out to be doing well? The little brat had a way of charming people; it’d be no surprise to Mary if the girl had found someone just as willing to pamper her as Thomas. Or rather, almost as willing. No one would want to pamper her as much as her __father__.

“So you found her,” a voice snarled behind her.

Mary Roseworth turned towards the speaker. He was a muscular man in a Union military uniform, with dark hair and fiery eyes that glared at her with the intensity of a thousand suns.

“Who are you?” Mary asked sharply. “How did you get here?”

“I warn you, woman,” the man told her icily, “If you choose to do this, if you hurt her… whatever you do to her, I’ll do a thousand-fold to you.”

Mary Roseworth scoffed.

“Oh, but surely you wouldn’t hurt a woman.”

“And surely __you__ wouldn’t hurt an innocent girl of twelve,” the man snarled. “Hypocrite.”

“She’s no innocent,” Mary replied. “She’s a filthy half-breed born of sin-”

The man slapped her across the face.

“You’ll shut your mouth if you know what’s good for you,” the man told her as he walked away. “And abandon this stupid plan of yours as well.” 

Unfortunately for both Mrs. Roseworth and John, Mrs. Mary Roseworth had absolutely no intentions of doing so. 


	4. Falling off the Roof

But fortunately for them both, John did not come to any harm in the next two weeks. Rather, that unfortunate fate fell on Anne’s shoulders. For a week after the tea at the manse and the Chimera incident, Diana Barry gave a party.

“Small and select,” Anne assured Marilla, “Just the girls in our class”.

Well, the girls in her class plus John, of course. The ‘plus John’ being a key factor in Marilla allowing Anne to go. For the Chimera incident had decreased John’s desire to stay at Green Gables, much to everyone’s surprise. Especially Marilla’s.

“I thought you wanted excitement,” Marilla had snapped as John began packing her possessions into her suitcase.

“That’s true,” John admitted. “But not the kind of excitement that puts innocent people in danger.”

“Well, what do you think your caretakers’ thieving does?”

“It doesn’t destroy their crops and nearly kill them, if that’s what you mean,” John replied.

John let go of her suitcase and sighed.

“My apologies, Miss Cuthbert,” she said. “It’s not that I don’t like you. Quite the opposite, actually. I’m afraid I’ve grown too fond of you all for your own good.”

“Fiddlesticks!”

“Not fiddlesticks,” John snapped. “Were you ever in danger of being attacked by fictional monsters before I arrived?”

“Well, no…”

“Exactly,” John said, “But you were when I was here. I don’t know how, but I know that Chimera was connected to me somehow. And…I just can’t bear to put you all in danger. You’ve…you’ve been so nice to me…even though I’m a stranger and an American and a __mestiza__ to boot…”

“Stuff and nonsense,” Marilla replied, but of course it wasn’t. The ladies of the village had been making an awful amount of remarks on John’s behalf about her race and her clothes that Marilla would characterize as “un-Christian” at best and almost uncivilized at worst. Why Marilla herself remembered her own remarks a year ago to Mrs. Lynde just when Matthew was going to Bright Sands to get Anne:

“At first Matthew suggested getting a ‘Home’ boy. But I said ‘no’ flat to that. ‘They may be all right- I’m not saying they’re not-but no London street Arabs for me’, I said. Get me a native-born, at least. There’ll be a risk, no matter who we get. But I’ll feel easier in my mind and sleep sounder at nights if we get a born Canadian.’”

And, for reasons Marilla could not fathom, she found herself regretting those words. So, although she told herself John was going to the party to be a sensible head keeping Anne’s fancies in check, in reality the reasons were much more subconscious, indicative of an almost guilt-like feeling Marilla was currently wrestling with.

Why do I want John to stay? Marilla asked herself as she watched Anne and John head off towards the party. Marilla hated to admit it, but the girl was right. Her connection to the Chimera meant that she was a danger to them, and Chimeras were not worth the girl’s free labor. It was a practical reason, and its counterargument, that the free labor would help them save money on hired boys who just kept on leaving, no longer held water. The only argument that could help save Marilla was a sentimental one, and Marilla was not good for sentimental arguments. Besides, no one would have believed Marilla could come up with one after only two or so months.

Subconsciously, the thought arose that perhaps her motives were more self-centered-that she was just hoping to use John as a means to escape the person who’d said those words to Mrs. Lynde a year ago. To prove, perhaps, to those nasty Avonlea ladies that she was more “enlightened” than they were. Of stronger moral fiber, more “Christian”. This realization, however, was only subconscious, and thus Marilla had no clue of its existence yet. 

So Anne went off to Diana’s party, and John went with her, and a good time was had by all the guests, with nothing eventful until after tea-time, when having run out of games in the Barry garden, they decided to amuse themselves with a certain form of entertainment called “daring”.

Daring, unfortunately for said children, had become the fashionable thing to do just then, having recently spread from the boys to the girls. A great amount of silly things had already been done because the doers were “dared” to do them, but sadly for Anne, the trend had shown no signs of stopping.

It started harmlessly enough; Carrie Sloane first dared Ruby Gillis to climb the old willow tree before the front door. Then Josie Pye dared Jane Andrews to hop on her left leg around the garden without stopping or putting her right foot to the ground. Jane Andrews ended up giving out at the third corner and confessed herself defeated. Josie Pye’s triumph at this being quite untastefully pronounced, Anne Shirley dared the girl to walk along the top of the board fence which bounded the garden to the east. Now, to walk board fences requires more skill and steadiness of head and foot than it appears, a fact which John pointed out only to be soundly ignored. Luckily for Josie, she had a natural and inborn gift for walking board fences, and proceeded to walk the Barry board fence with an unconcern which seemed to imply such a thing wasn’t worth being “dared”. Reluctant admiration greeted her exploit, for the other girls had suffered many things in their efforts to walk board fences.

Josie triumphantly descended from her perch, flush with victory, and darted a defiant glance at Anne.

Anne tossed her red braids.

“I don’t think it’s such a very wonderful thing to walk a little, low, board fence,” she said. “Why, John here used to do all sorts of acrobatics like scaling buildings and jumping from roof to roof. Plus I knew a girl in Marysville who could walk the ridgepole of a roof.”

Everyone at the party gasped.

“Is this true, John?” Ruby Gillis asked nervously.

“Y-yes,” John stammered, being quite grateful to have been skipped in the “daring” game and not eager to demonstrate her burglary skills in front of genteel Canadian schoolgirls. “B-but I had help, keep in mind.”

Fortunately for John’s budding reputation and unfortunately for Anne, Josie Pye did not care a whit for John’s past exploits. Rather, she had hung onto a different part of Anne’s claim.

“I don’t believe it,” she said flatly. “I don’t believe anybody could walk a ridgepole. YOU couldn’t, anyhow.”

“Couldn’t I?” cried Anne rashly.

“Then I dare you to do it,” Josie said defiantly. “I dare you to climb up there and walk the ridgepole of Mr. Barry’s kitchen roof.”

Anne turned pale, but there was clearly only one thing to be done. She walked toward the house, where a ladder was leaning against the kitchen roof. All the fifth-class girls said, “Oh!” partly in excitement, partly in dismay.

“Don’t you do it, Anne,’ entreated Diana. “You’ll fall off and be killed. Never mind Josie Pye. It isn’t fair to dare anybody to do anything so dangerous.”

“She’s right,” John cried, her voice trembling, “It isn’t. It really isn’t. Come on. Come back down and I’ll give Josie a good sock to the face. She deserves it after suggesting such nonsense.”

“I must do it. My honor is at stake,’ said Anne solemnly. “I shall walk that ridgepole, Diana, or perish in the attempt. If I am killed you are to have my pearl bead ring.”

Anne climbed the ladder amid breathless silence, gained the ridgepole, balanced herself uprightly on that precarious footing, and started to walk along it, dizzily conscious that

she was uncomfortably high up in the world and that walking ridgepoles was not a thing in which your imagination helped you out much.

John, ever the tomboy, climbed up halfway on the ladder in case Anne needed rescuing, but didn’t get far enough to actually reach the roof. Or to actually rescue Anne. To Anne’s credit, she did manage to take several steps before disaster struck. Then she swayed,

lost her balance, stumbled, staggered, and fell, sliding down over the sun-baked roof and crashing off it through the tangle of Virginia creeper beneath— all before John and the horrified 

circle below could give a simultaneous, terrified shriek.

Fortunately for Anne, she did not fall on the side she ascended, which would have killed her. She fell on the other side, where the roof extended down over the porch so nearly to the ground that a fall therefrom was a much less serious thing. Nevertheless, when John, Diana and the other girls rushed frantically around the house- except Ruby Gillis, who was frozen in horror-they found Anne lying all white and limp among the wreck and ruin of the Virginia creeper.

“Anne, are you killed?’ shrieked Diana, throwing herself on her knees beside her friend. “Oh, Anne, dear Anne, speak just one word to me and tell me if you’re killed.”

To everyone’s relief, but especially John and Josie Pye’s, the former of whom was stricken with grief at the thought of life without the girl who’d become so dear in so short an amount of time, and of Josie Pye, who was having horrible visions of being branded the cause of Anne’s tragic death, Anne sat up and answered,

“No, I am not killed, but I think I may be rendered unconscious.”

“Where?’ sobbed Carrie Sloane. ‘Oh, where, Anne?”

Before Anne could answer Mrs. Barry appeared on the scene. At sight of her Anne tried to scramble to her feet, but sank back again with a sharp little cry of pain.

‘What’s the matter? Where have you hurt yourself?’ demanded Mrs. Barry.

‘My ankle,’ gasped Anne. ‘Oh, Diana, please find your father and ask him to take me home. I know I can never walk there. And I’m sure I couldn’t hop so far on one foot when

Jane couldn’t even hop around the garden.’

“Fiddlesticks!” John exclaimed, her conscience guilty of the fact she hadn’t done more to prevent this, “I’ll carry you.”

The compromise was that both John and Mr. Barry carried Anne up the slope, with a procession of the other girls in tow, to Green Gables, where Marilla was picking apples in the orchard. Seeing Anne’s limp body in John and Mr. Barry’s arms, Marilla suddenly realized what Anne had come to mean to her.

Over the year in which Marilla and Matthew had had Anne, she would have admitted she was very fond of Anne at the most. But as she rushed down the slope she knew it wasn’t true. The real truth was that Anne was dearer to her than anything else on earth.

‘Mr. Barry, what has happened to her?’ she gasped, morewhite and shaken than the self-contained, sensible Marilla had been for many years.

Anne herself answered, lifting her head.

“Don’t be very frightened, Marilla. I was walking the ridgepole and I fell off. I expect I have sprained my ankle. But, Marilla, I might have broken my neck. Let us look on

the bright side of things.”

“It was that Josie Pye’s fault,” John snapped, glaring at Josie Pye, who lowered her eyes in shame. “ _ _She__ dared her to do it.”

“I might have known she’d go and do something of the sort when I let you two go to that party,” said Marilla, sharp and shrewish in her very relief. “Bring her in here, Mr. Barry, Miss Hernandez, and lay her on the sofa. Mercy me, the child has gone and fainted!”

Indeed, Anne had fainted, overcome by the pain of her injury.

Matthew was straightaway dispatched to the doctor, who in due time came, to discover that Anne’s ankle was not sprained but broken.

That night, when Marilla went up to the east gable, Anne asked plaintively from the bed,

‘Aren’t you very sorry for me, Marilla?’

“It was your own fault,” said Marilla, twitching down the blind and lighting a lamp.

“No, it was mine,” John insisted from the other side of the bed, shutting her suitcase and gathering it up in her arms. “I tried to prevent her, but I didn’t. I should have scooped her straight up off that roof. Hell, I should have kept Josie Pye from walking that damned board fence. If she hadn’t walked that board fence, Anne wouldn’t have mocked her, Josie wouldn’t have dared her to walk that roof.”

John shook her head.

“No, I should have stopped Ruby Gillis from climbing that tree. If Ruby Gillis hadn’t climbed that tree, Jane wouldn’t have failed to hop around the garden, Josie wouldn’t have been nasty, she wouldn’t have walked the board fence, and she wouldn’t have dared Anne to-”

“Stuff and nonsense!” Marilla interrupted. “The only person responsible for Anne’s injury is Anne herself. Attempting to shift blame never does anything but make it clearer who’s at fault.”

“W-well,” John sputtered, choosing to ignore the lesson Marilla accidentally gave, “I’ll be taking my leave now. Farewell, Marilla. Farewell, Anne. I hope your leg gets better.”

“Leaving?” Marilla cried. “At this hour?”

Of course, it was not the hour Marilla truly objected to, but the concept of John leaving at all. For the almost-loss of Anne had broken all pretenses Marilla had in her heart. A year ago she had almost pawned Anne off on a completely horrible woman because Anne hadn’t the boy she’d asked for. Now Anne was the dearest creature to her-and this was not for any logical or practical reason. Anne was constantly getting into scrapes and accidents, which logic dictated was a loss rather than a gain. But losing Anne had forced Marilla to realize that she was not truly a creature that ran on pure practicality- that there was, indeed, sentimentality in her heart. Not as great an amount of sentimentality as Anne- who could ever hope to have as much sentimentality as Anne!- but a fair amount, nevertheless. And that sentimental piece, while not as devoted to John as Anne- not yet, anyway- was starting to get fond of John, too.

“Y-yes,” John agreed. “It would be unreasonable to try and travel this late. I mean, I can’t imagine all the thieves on the road would be as kind as my former caretakers were.”

This was not any more truthful than Marilla’s argument- secretly John probably thought she could take down any ruffians of the road who tried to get fresh with her- she’d done so several times before. But Anne’s fall was also bringing down the walls of John’s pretenses- the chief one being, that Anne and the Cuthberts were just rescuers-turned-employers. Anne’s near-death had made her realize that they were so much more- that Anne was a dear, dear friend, and that Marilla and Matthew, well- they weren’t friends, but they were starting to be like Mr. Roseworth and the Mustangs had. Granted, neither of them would ever pamper her as much as Mr. Roseworth had -certainly not Marilla- and Marilla would probably die of shock should she ever come into contact with the Wild Mustangs. But like them, they were starting to be family. And John, although she was just now realizing it, was in desperate need of family.

John wanted to stay for real.

“I should think not,” Marilla replied. “Now, why don’t you get to bed?”

“I think I will,” John replied, setting her suitcase down on the ground.

“Good, then I’ll let you get to bed… _ _John__.”

* * *

* * *

The next seven weeks were unrelentingly tedious, at least they were for Anne, who, if not for her vast imagination, would have been terribly bored. Marilla, John, and Matthew occupied themselves with the farm as usual for the first two weeks, and Marilla and Matthew set themselves especially busy with the adoption papers. When the third week arrived, John began to add school to her list of occupations, which was an interesting experience for her. It turned out, much to everyone’s surprise, that thanks to the private tutors Mr. Roseworth had hired for her back when she lived at the mansion, John was surprisingly ahead of the others in terms of academics-she, like Anne, was one of the top students in the class. This did not earn her popularity among the girls at school, especially not the ones who subscribed to the racist tendencies of their parents. She did, however, gain popularity amongst the boys when she defeated another Chimera, one who happened to be attacking the school. This did not give John as much happiness as one would think.

“They’re nothing but a bunch of rambunctious country boys,” John complained to Anne as she sat at the girl’s bedside. “And that Gilbert fellow is the worst of the lot. Why, he thought it would be funny to dip my hair in an inkwell- he said nobody would notice because it was __so dark, like me__.”

“He did the same thing to me,” Anne commiserated. “Or near the same. He pulled my hair and whispered, ‘Carrots!’. I was so upset, I smashed his head with my slate.”

John chuckled.

“Oh yeah, I heard about that. Mighty cruel thing, that. Not the slate- him. The bastard deserved the slate-bashing. It took the combined might of both Diana and Jane Andrews to restrain me from decking Gilbert myself.”

“Yes,” Anne replied, frowning as she examined her fiery red braids, “Well, not everyone can have __beautiful ebony-black__ hair. Some of us have to deal with having __red__ hair.”

“Nonsense!” John cried. “I think your hair’s beautiful!”

“Really?!” Anne exclaimed, flushing a bit. “No one’s ever said that to me before.”

“Yes,” John replied. “It is. It’s like firelight.”

“T-thank you,” Anne stammered, not entirely sharing John’s perspective.

John’s compliment was not the only positive attention Anne would receive from other girls those seven weeks, however. Not a day went by when one or more of the schoolgirls dropped in to bring her flowers and books and tell her about the goings-on of Avonlea’s juvenile world. In the end she knew everything about the new Miss Muriel Stacy’s progressive, interesting school program, and looked forward to it with all her heart. A desire which she expressed by talking about it constantly.

“One thing’s plain,” Marilla mused to herself after another of Anne’s ramblings, “is that your fall off the Barry’s roof hasn’t injured your tongue at all.”

But it was not all sunshine, new beginnings, and Chimera fights. Two nights before Anne was ready to go back to school, she had a dream.

“It was the most horrific dream ever, and yet beautiful in a way,” Anne gasped as John rose from their shared bed in the east gable room. “In it I was myself, but older, and beautiful, with long, auburn tresses, and the most splendid white dress with the most gloriously puffed sleeves imaginable.”

“Why you care so much about puffed sleeves, I’ll never know,” John muttered as she pulled on her breeches.

“Well, why don’t you- oh, it’s no use. Anyway, and I was walking along Lover’s lane, and there was this gentleman- dark and a mestiza like you, John-“”

“Mestiz _ _o__ ,” John corrected. “It’s mestiz _ _o__ for the male, mestiz _ _a__ for the female.”

“Well, a mestizo, and he was the handsomest creature you ever did see, and he was madly in love with me- but for some reason he couldn’t tell me.”

“Well, I expect it’d be because he’s a mestizo,” John said casually as she threw off the nightdress Marilla had made for her (Marilla refused to let John sleep in her shirts) and put on a shirt. “I doubt Marilla would let you get married to a mestizo. She may have come around to __me__ , but there are certain rules that just stick no matter what.”

“Well, with my hair, I think I’d be lucky to get married to any man, mestizo or otherwise,” Anne replied. “But I wasn’t in the love with the mestizo man, at any rate, even though I probably should have been- he was sweet and courageous and very kind to me. He was just a dear, dear friend to me. And then there was a ball we went to and I had this gorgeous green evening dress, but the mestizo went out for a second, and then he was shot and I was cradling him in my arms, and he was telling me he loved me with his dying breath. And then we were in America, for some reason- I don’t know how I knew it was America, I just knew- and we were burying him and I was dressed all in black and sobbing as I watched his corpse get lowered into the ground- and it got me to thinking-“”

Anne suddenly sat up and asked,

“Which do you think is better- dying alone, never knowing love, or dying with love unfulfilled?”

“I should think neither,” John answered as she combed her hair. “Marriage to a sensible man who liked me well enough, passion or no passion, is better. But if I had to choose I’d go with the former, I guess. No love is better than crying over something denied.”

“You are terribly practical,” Anne sighed. 


	5. Modern-Day Intermission

**__Camp Half Blood, New York, around 100 years later.__**

“What are you __reading__ , Wise Girl?” Clarisse barked as she walked by the Athena table, squinting at the ancient-looking journal Annabeth was reading.

“I found it in the big house,” Annabeth explained, not taking her eyes off the book’s dusty pages. “It…appears to be the diary of some Canadian girl named Anne. It wouldn’t interest you. It’s mostly farm work and 1800s daily life and almost __no__ blood and guts.”

“Then why are you reading it?” Clarisse asked, puzzled.

“This may surprise you, but there is more to life than beating people to a bloody pulp,” Annabeth snarked. “And also because the last entry describes a girl named John killing a Chimera that was threatening their farm.”

“And-?”

“Were you not listening?” Annabeth snapped. “I just told you most of the diary was about daily 1800s life. There has been zero indication, up until this __last entry__ , that little Miss Anne Shirley-”

Clarisse snorted.

“Anne Shirley? That’s her name?”

“Yes,” Annabeth sighed. “It is. And I was saying, there is no indication the girl ever had contact with the supernatural up until she describes her guardians’ farmhand John killing a Chimera.”

Annabeth flipped through some more pages and frowned.

“Not to mention,” she added, “Apparently her guardians, two siblings named Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert, also saw the Chimera, and the entire town believed all four of the residents.”

“So…this farmhand girl John killed a Chimera, and the Mist…somehow managed not to work. That’s not good.”

“It isn’t,” Annabeth acknowledged, finally shutting the book and glancing up at Clarisse, “But what’s more interesting to me is that this Anne Shirley might have had the Sight. And that her farmhand friend John might have been a demigod.”

“Wait…how do long-dead demigods and mortals with Sight take precedence over the __Mist not working__!” Clarisse exclaimed.

“Because John’s full name, as explained in the entry where Anne recounts John’s life story, is __Josefina Hernandez__.”

Clarisse raised an eyebrow. 

“And what does that have to do with anything?"

"Because it's the same name as the one on the grave outside camp," Annabeth replied. 

The gravestone. One of Camp Half-Blood's many mysteries, a mystery that nobody had ever been able to solve. Clarisse, like many new campers, had been exploring the camp when she found the grave, the aging granite headstone with these words carved into it:

_Here lies Josefina Hernandez,_ _aged sixteen years._

_Daughter of Mr. Thomas Roseworth and Claudia Hernandez Gomez_

_1865-1881_

Why there was a dead mortal girl buried near Camp Half-Blood, no one could say. Whoever she was, wherever she had come from-all that had been long forgotten. 

"So it is," Clarisse admitted. "But it can't be the same-" 

“She might very well be," Annabeth told her. "Especially because the long-dead Josefina Hernandez’s mother, according to the gravestone, is Claudia Hernandez Gomez, and Anne writes that her friend John’s mother’s name is Claudia Hernandez.”

“Yeah, but what about the Gomez part?” Clarisse asked. “Wouldn’t that indicate the gravestone Claudia is a different Claudia?”

“Not as much as you might think,” Annabeth explained. “See, in Hispanic naming conventions, they have two last names. One for their dad’s first surname, which goes first, and then their mother’s first surname, which goes last. Gomez might simply have been Claudia’s mother’s surname.”

Annabeth frowned down at the book and added,

"Also, Anne mentions that John was briefly adopted by a man named Thomas Roseworth-"

"The same guy the grave claims is John's father," Clarisse interjected. 

Annabeth nodded. 

"But Anne claims differently. She says that John's father was a colonel in the Union army during the Civil War. Mr. Roseworth was merely a mutual friend who adopted John out of the goodness of his heart." 

Clarisse rolled her eyes. 

" _Right_ ," she snapped. "The goodness of his heart. Not because of guilt at knocking up John's mama or anything." 

Annabeth scoffed. 

"An understandable conclusion," she admitted, "But the identity of this colonel is rather sketchy. All Anne says is that his name is also "John"." 

"And that's relevant how?" 

Annabeth looked Clarisse straight in the eye. 

"Think about it," she snapped. "A high-ranking military man with a vague identity meets and falls in love with a woman, and together, they produce a child capable of killing a Chimera at _age twelve._ Rather suspicious, isn't it?" 


	6. Chapter 6

**__November 1877__**

**__“__** _ _Dear John,”__ John read aloud to Matthew, Marilla, and Anne,

__“You must flee from Prince Edward Island at once. Mrs. Mary Roseworth is coming for you, fully intending to murder you in cold blood. If you value your life and the lives of those of your new family, you will heed this warning and pack your things for San Diego, Texas, where your mother’s husband’s family has taken up residence. Their residence is 45-”_ _

John tore up the letter and threw it in the slop pail.

“What?” she said to a slack-jawed Anne. “I’m not going to drop everything based on a mysterious letter from a person who refuses to write their name or address on the front side, and signs it ‘From, a very concerned party’ _ _.__ ”

“A sensible notion,” Marilla agreed, “ You’ve no reason to trust this person, because you don’t know them.”

“But-but your stepmother-” cried Anne.

“Has no reason to come all the way from New York to kill me,” John pointed out. “My being in Canada gives her everything she wants- me out of the picture, receiving no attention from Mr. Roseworth, and herself and her bratty children the center of attention once more. And all without dirtying her hands.”

“I-I…fair enough.”

“Now,” John said with a smile, “You were saying something about a concert, Anne.”

And thus began a furious and impassioned plea from Anne begging Marilla to let her take part in Miss Muriel Stacy’s Christmas concert, and a series of complaints and a reluctant giving of permission from Marilla.

In other words, everything was back to the domestic tranquility John had experienced in the past two months ever since Anne had finally returned to school in October to partake in Miss Muriel Stacy’s unconventional teaching arrangements. And also to introduce John to her set of friends, which did John a world of good. For while John did not get quite so attached to them as Anne, it did give her a perspective on female friendship which up until this point she had been sorely lacking. In all her twelve years of life she only ever had contact with two girls around her age, keep in mind, and both had been extremely nasty to her.

Thus, the positive attentions and support of girls such as but not limited to Diana Barry, Ruby Gillis, and Julia Bell were quite a new experience.

One example of this was when during one of the field afternoons Miss Stacy liked to organize, where all the schoolchildren went out to study nature, Julia Bell discovered John could draw. Rather than, as John was expecting, using this against her somehow, Julia Bell instead decided to tell Miss Muriel Stacy. Who, much to John’s further surprise, acted in her capacity as a good teacher, sincerely asked John to draw a sketch of her. When John complied, Miss Muriel Stacy then proceeded to give her a set of drawing and coloring pencils as well as a notebook to draw in. Stunned and humbled by this development, John said,

“It-it’s only a little thing- it’s just something Mr. Roseworth taught me to do. He liked to teach me to draw and paint and such-”

To which Miss Muriel Stacy replied,

“You can paint too? Why, we must get you a canvas and some paints-”

And to which Diana Barry chimed,

“My Aunt Josephine might be able to get some for her. She’s quite fond of me and Anne already- I’m sure she’ll love you too, John!”

All this female moral support positively embarrassed John, but in the end the canvases and paints were provided, Miss Josephine Barry was introduced to John, and subsequently liked and was amused by the little tomboy in good time.

And thus began for John an enriching hobby as an artist, which Marilla grudgingly tolerated and the rest of Anne’s social circle loved. Especially because Anne came up with so many wonderful scenarios for John to draw out. Matthew also liked this habit, as it made the house ‘real purty’.

But, as happy as the little family at Green Gables was, John was quite wrong to ignore the mysterious letter. For Mrs. Mary Roseworth still wanted John gone, no matter how far Prince Edward Island was in the grand scheme of things. Especially after John’s letter to Mr. Roseworth arrived at the manor.

“ _ _Dear Mr. Roseworth__ ,” Mr. Thomas Roseworth read aloud from the letter in his hand as he and his family sat at the breakfast table.

“ _ _There is no need for you to worry about me anymore, and I am sorry I caused such worry in the first place.__ __I am currently living at Green Gables in Avonlea, Prince Edward Island, where the good Miss Marilla Cuthbert and Mr. Matthew Cuthbert have taken it upon themselves to adopt me. How I got here and how that happened is a long story- but suffice it to say that while trying to get to New York City I ended up on Prince Edward Island in Canada, where I was run over by Mr. Matthew Cuthbert’s horse. After my recovery from said injuries caused by the horse, I took it upon myself to become their farmhand, of which they were in dire need. Then, eventually, we got to like each other so well, they decided to adopt me. While farm life is not nearly as luxurious as life with you, and there is nary a proper Catholic priest in sight, I am pleased to say I am happy here. There is no need to look for me or come after me, for I fully intend to stay in Avonlea for the time being. I will write you, of course, but needless to say, your worries are over. I believe you have fulfilled my mother’s wishes and in that matter can put your conscience to rest.__

__Your faithful former ward,_ _

__John__ ”

“Well!” exclaimed George, Thomas’s eldest son and heir of fifteen years of age. “This is an interesting turn of events! I never thought the little mestiza would ever do anything like __honest work__.”

“I think it’s awfully predictable,” Janie, George’s twin sister, replied. “Of course the little tomboy would find the one of the least ladylike occupations possible to fill her time.”

“What does surprise me is that she hasn’t turned to crime,” Maggie, Thomas’s daughter of twelve years, chimed in.

“Of course the little brat has found someone to take care of her,” Mrs. Mary Roseworth snapped from her place at the foot of the table. “The little bastard has always had a way of charming people.”

“She’s not a bastard!” Mr. Thomas Roseworth roared.

“Of course not,” Mrs. Mary Roseworth replied with a sudden faux sweetness. “She’s your good friend Claudia Hernandez’s only daughter. A woman who would surely be dismayed to find that her daughter was a farmhand. I think I’ll be going up to Avonlea myself, to talk some sense into the girl, put her mother’s mind at ease.”

Mr. Thomas Roseworth gulped. He knew full well what his wife really intended to do. Especially since he’d just gotten the news that Claudia Hernandez, his one and only true love, was deceased. And that therefore there was nothing the woman __could__ say about John.

He didn’t dare say anything, however, without revealing the truth about his affairs to all of his four legitimate children assembled thus. Children, whom, he was not the most affectionate father of, granted, and only truly spent time with once they got near adulthood. But still-them knowing about the numerous dalliances and lovechildren he’d had and sired over the years would not be good.

“Of-of course, honey,” he agreed. “That’s a __great__ idea. Tell you what- I’ll send Father McClellan along too. He’s had nothing to do since John ran away and the poor girl must be anxious for a proper confession.”

“A capital idea, husband,” Mrs. Mary Roseworth said, a big fake grin all over her face. “ A capital idea.”

“I-I have some business to do,” Mr. Thomas Roseworth announced as he got out of his chair. “You all carry on without me.”

With that, he hurried into his study, anxious to pen a warning to the last remnant of his one true love. Hardly had he arrived, however, when he was greeted by a muscular man in a Union military uniform, with dark hair and fiery eyes.

“The priest is not nearly enough protection against that woman’s schemes,” the man snapped.

“I know,” Thomas Roseworth replied bitterly. “But what else can I do?”

“You can demand John to return home at once. You could arrange a hunting accident for your wife. You could-”

“ _Kill_ Mary?” Thomas Roseworth cried. “Are you suggesting-”

“What? It's not as if you _care_ about her," the man scoffed. “You never have. And besides, she's trying to kill John. Who you _do_ care about."

"I'm not about to become a murderer," Thomas insisted. "Not because of John." 

The man seethed in fury. 

"So when push comes to shove, you're willing to let her die," he snapped. "No wonder she ran away." 

“You should talk," Mr. Roseworth spat. "You're her actual father, and you haven't done a damn thing for her."

The man was apoplectic.

"Not done a- I LED THOSE THIEVES TO YOUR HOUSE WHILE YOU WERE AWAY!" he roared. "To YOUR house, where she would have _DIED_ on that blasted doorstep! _You_ only started giving a crap when she tried to pick your pocket." 

The man drew a sword from the mantelpiece and brandished it. 

"And you haven't even bothered to look for her in all these months since she ran away," he pointed out. "For all that you _loved_ Claudia so much, her daughter doesn't seem to be much of a priority to you." 

"Enough," a gray-eyed woman in a Union uniform snapped as she materialized into the room. "There is business at hand." 

The man glared at the woman.

“And it's _none of yours_. Go away." 

“Yes,” Thomas said snootily, “go away, woman. The men are talking.”

At that moment the woman snapped her fingers, and Thomas fell to the floor, gasping and sputtering. The woman glowered intensely at him, her eyes shining as she floated slightly above the ground, saying in a voice that sounded as though a thousand women were speaking at once:

“You do NOT dismiss me as if I were one of your concubines, sir. I have sat upon the councils of men for thousands upon thousands of years, many of which were far grander than this. I have sat upon councils that decided the fates of cities and empires, of gods and men. Glory was brought to those councils who heeded my words, and shame and ruin upon those who dismissed me in favor of folly.”

“Who-what are you?” Thomas gasped, partly in horror, partly to avoid dying.

“I am like the man standing before you, only far more cunning, and far more willing to use that cunning to devise a fate for you which ensures no mercy.”

“I-alright, you win!”

The woman snapped her fingers, and Thomas’s breathing returned to normal. Thomas stood up, brushed himself off, and suggested: 

“P-perhaps we could inform John about her mother’s death and tell her to come home for the funeral-”

“The funeral already happened,” the man pointed out, “All the way in Texas, no less.”

“Y-yes, but _she_ doesn’t know that,” Mr. Roseworth said.

“And what do you gentlemen plan on doing when there’s no funeral to be had?” the woman pointed out. 

"I don't plan to do anything," the man grumbled. " It's a stupid plan." 

"Quite right," the woman agreed. "Now, here is what I propose. We send a letter telling her exactly what is happening, alongside the address of a neutral family member, one far, far away from New York. In Texas, specifically.”

“That…I hate to admit it,” the man in uniform growled, “But that’s actually a good idea.”

* * *

* * *

Christmas came, and fortunately for John, the consequences of failing to heed the mysterious warning were warded off by Thomas Roseworth skillfully finding ways to delay Mrs. Mary Roseworth’s visit. Thus, John spent the month of December helping Anne with her recitation for the Christmas concert, painting, drawing, studying, doing farm chores, and introducing the Cuthberts to Advent. A tradition which although unfamiliar, they ended up liking.

The only trouble anyone had that month was Matthew, who a fortnight into Christmas, realized that Anne’s clothes were not like those of the other girls- whereas theirs were pretty, Anne’s were plain. And so he resolved to go over to Carmody and get her one pretty dress- just one! But alas, living in a houseful of women had not conquered his fear of speaking to women in general-it had only made exceptions to the rule. So he went to Samuel Lawson’s store, instead of the Cuthberts’ usual choice of William Blair’s, due to Blair’s lady clerks. Yet poor Matthew did not know that Lawson had hired a lady clerk as well. The result of this was that the poor man lost whatever courage he had and ended up buying farming tools and twenty pounds of brown sugar out of nervousness. What was worse was that he ended up chastised by Marilla for his mistake, and he dared not explain his secret project to her, for she was quite insistent on making Anne simple dresses. And so he was forced to go to Mrs. Lynde- as she was the only other grown woman besides Marilla that he could speak to without his fear overcoming him.

Fortunately, the good woman took the matter out of his hands entirely.

“Pick out a dress for you to give to Anne? Why, sure! I’m going to Carmody tomorrow and I’ll be sure to do it. Anything particular? No. Well, then, I’ll go by my own judgment then. I believe a nice, rich brown would suit Anne, and William Blair has some pretty new gloria just in. I’ll make it up for her too, don’t worry, I like sewing, and I’ll make it to fit my niece, Jenny Gillis. Those two are as alike as peas in a pod as far as figure goes.”

“I’m much obliged, but I- I don’t know- they make the sleeves differently than they used to-I’d like them made in the new way-“”

“Puffed sleeves? Of course! I’ll make it in the very latest fashion.”

Mrs. Lynde was indeed quite happy to oblige the man and when he went mused to herself about the silliness of Marilla dressing Anne so soberly as a method of instilling humility and of letting John dress like a boy. Yes, the girl might like it, but she wouldn’t remain twelve forever and soon she’d need some clothes of a more feminine nature.

Fortunately, the good-natured busybody restricted herself to just making a dress for Anne, instead choosing to buy more drawing pencils and paint for John, thus ensuring a happy Christmas for everyone.

Especially Anne, for once she saw the dress in question on Christmas Day, her eyes became as wide as saucers.

It was beautiful- a lovely soft silk-like gloria, a skirt with dainty frills and shirrings, a waist pintucked in the most fashionable way, a little ruffle of filmy lace at the neck- and the sleeves! Those sleeves, the crowning glory-long elbow cuffs and above them two beautiful puffs divided by rows of shirring and bows of brown silk ribbons.

“Do you like it?” Matthew asked.

“Like it-”Anne cried, tears filling her eyes. “Oh, Matthew, it’s perfectly exquisite. Oh, I can never thank you enough. Oh, it seems to me a happy dream!”

“It is beautiful,” John acknowledged, still staring at her paints. “I should like to paint you in, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh-” Anne gasped, continuing to stare at the dress.

Eventually Marilla coaxed everyone over to breakfast, and afterwards Diana arrived with another present for Anne-dainty kid slippers from Miss Josephine Barry, which practically sent Anne over the moon. John got something from Miss Josephine Barry as well- a command to paint something for an art exhibit the old woman was hosting. This caused John, much to her later embarrassment, to swoon out of sheer shock.

For in all of John’s life, she’d only had one talent to be proud- her prowess with aiming and firing pistols. This was not a talent that anyone in polite society would ever accept- unless you were part of a Wild West show, which John was not. Gaining a ladylike talent that was acceptable in society- and showed a fine mind and temperament was not something she believed she would ever attain. Especially not one that was mostly a hobby.

But the painting Miss Barry wanted was painted, and it was the painting John had earlier wanted to do of Anne in her dress. And how marvelous it looked- Anne’s dark dress set against the background of the wintry wonderland of the Canadian countryside, with her hair done up on her head-it was a marvelous study of color and contrast, and Anne even joked that she wished she looked half as beautiful as she did in the painting. John disagreed, saying that Anne was very beautiful. Fellow people of the 1870s might have disagreed, as Anne’s freckles were conspicuously absent from the painting.

John titled the painting __Lady Cordelia in the Wintertime__ , because of Anne expressing preference for the name Cordelia over her own. And it went off to Miss Barry, and it sold extremely well, and Miss Barry wrote John her thanks and a command for more paintings.

The Christmas concert went off without a hitch, save for Gilbert Blythe picking up a rose that fell from Anne’s hair and putting it in his breast-pocket. Anne did not notice, and refused to acknowledge it when Diana pointed it out to her. John sided with Anne on this point.

And so winter passed, and eventually Avonlea life settled into a post-concert state of normality. Anne’s thirteenth birthday was celebrated in March, and on that same day Diana complained about having to imagine and make up a story for the composition Miss Stacy required of them. Anne was thus inspired to form a story club to help cultivate her friends’ imaginations. At first limited to Anne and Diana, the club eventually expanded to John, Ruby Gillis, and Ruby Gillis. No boys were allowed, despite Ruby Gillis’s complaints. Each member had to produce one story a week.

Anne’s naturally, were the best by default. Ruby Gillis’s fault was putting a nauseating amount of romance in hers, Diana killing her characters off out of an inability to do anything else with them, and Jane’s just being plain boring. As for John’s stories…

“John’s stories are almost as good as mine,” Anne confessed to Marilla, “But they’re always about the same subject: her parents. Which is a good enough subject considering that her past is very romantic, but it gets boring after a while. At least, to me it does. But they’re alright, even if they’re all the same. Her best one about them was today, actually- it concerned her father’s death at the hands of his rival for her mother’s affections, Julio Montilla. He shoots the man in cold blood just as he’s about to tell Claudia, whom he proposed to, that he was given leave from the army to marry her. Claudia then runs out and sobs as she clutches his dead body in her arms. Julio then decides to take that moment to propose to her, but she slaps him and says she’d never marry him if he was the last man on earth. Instead she runs off to a convent, where she gives birth to John and tearfully sends off to her friend Mr. Roseworth, who was a soldier serving alongside John’s father, for she can’t raise a child out of wedlock. The story ends with John being found on the doorstep by an unknown person.”

Anne shrugged.

“She made Julio up and his role up, of course. John claims her father probably died in battle, but said that would have been anti-climactic. I don’t think so, of course, but otherwise it’s one of her best, regardless of its truth, which John says there’s very little of. Still, I told her to write something else and she said she’ll try. I nearly always have to tell them what to write, which isn’t hard because I have plenty of ideas.”

“I think this story business is the foolishest idea yet,” Marilla scoffed.

But Mrs. Mary Roseworth could not be put off forever, and eventually she caught wise to her husband’s ploys. She then decided that if she could not commit murder in person, she’d have to commit murder by mail.

And so the post delivered a package of chocolates for John with a card that read,

__A much belated Christmas present. Please forgive me.__

__From,_ _

__Thomas Roseworth._ _

Touched by her former caretaker’s thoughtfulness, John happily took a bite of one of the chocolates, only to collapse onto the ground. An alarmed Marilla immediately summoned the doctor, who, fortunately, was able to save John’s life, although she was rendered bedridden for a few weeks. Eventually it was deduced that Mrs. Mary Roseworth must have sent the chocolates, and it was decided that all packages from the Roseworths would be forthwith thrown away. An apology letter was sent to Mr. Roseworth informing him of this, which was the first he heard of the murder attempt, and, in outrage, confronted his wife about it.

“She is the product of your unnatural union with that woman,” Mrs. Mary Roseworth shrieked in response. “How else am I supposed to react?”

“I have told you a million times, woman,” Thomas roared. “She __is not my natural daughter__.”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Mary Roseworth replied with a shrill laugh. “She’s the daughter of Claudia and that __mysterious colonel with no name__. Do you honestly expect me to believe that? After all the other little lovechildren you’ve graced our social circle with?”

“Elizabeth Marston, age fifteen,” Mrs. Mary Roseworth began, counting off the children on her fingers. “Whom you had with my __best friend__ , Jenny. Edmund, age twelve, whom you had with my lady’s maid. Billy the boot-blacking boy, whom you had with a parlor maid. Betty, whom you had with Mrs. Hansen from town- and do you think Mr. Hansen doesn’t know she isn’t his?! And of course, Agatha, whom you had with a scullery maid. There isn’t a single woman in the world I can trust hasn’t slept with you save your own daughters, sisters, and mother. That totals about _five women_ , Thomas. How do you think I feel that there are only five women who _aren’t_ your possible mistresses?”

“That doesn’t justify murder!” Thomas cried.

“It does when you love her above all your _legitimate_ children,” Mary retorted. “You dropped everything to adopt her, yet you pay no attention to little Thomas, and barely any to Maggie, and only bothered to spend time with Janie and George __after__ they had their fourteenth birthdays. Hell, you don’t even treat the bastards you _admit_ to with as much love as her. One of them is a servant, for crying out loud. You _never_ see Betty or Elizabeth, and you only see Edmund and Agatha when it’s convenient. What makes that mestiza better than any of them?”

“She is the only child of the woman I love,” Thomas replied. “And as she is now deceased- and don’t think I don’t suspect you for a moment-and even though John is not mine I wish she was. And I vow to protect her as long as she lives.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” Mary hissed. “It’s too noble for you. Too self-sacrificing. Except for the part where I killed Claudia. You’re right- that trip to see my cousin was a trip to Mexico. A short trip. Just long enough for your precious Claudia to breathe her last.”

Mary cackled as she saw her husband’s jaw drop.

“Too bad you can’t avenge her without admitting your own sins,” she added. “Or will you?”

“I’m sure John’s _real_ father will punish you well enough,” Thomas replied coldly, turning on his heel. “For both sins.”

“Too bad he doesn’t exist,” Mary laughed. Then her hands went to her throat, recalling the mysterious man in the Union uniform. Could this colonel really be-?

No. Mary shook her head. The colonel was a lie, an excuse for Thomas to hide behind just like all the other excuses Thomas had.

But still…just to be sure, Mary took it upon herself to sneak once more into her husband’s office, to find a certain piece of evidence that would confirm the truth, once and for all.

The evidence, in this case, the journal her husband kept during the war. Upon reading it, however, Mary found much to her dismay that there was, indeed, a colonel. Who, did, indeed, court Claudia Hernandez during the time Thomas had been stationed in Texas. Disappointing as it was, this information might have saved many lives, and perhaps gone some way to restoring Mary’s sanity, had it not been for another fact- that Thomas had also courted Claudia Hernandez __at the same time__.

The uncertainty of John’s true paternity, where it had once been so certain, shook Mary to her core, shattering one of the few precious bits of sanity Mary still had.

Further reading revealed even worse, at least from Mary’s perspective-namely it revealed that Thomas, too, had had contact with the supernatural- at least during the war. Meaning that she was not the only one with magic on her side.

In a logic-deprived attempt at keeping Thomas from magic power, Mary tore half of the pages of the diary out and threw them into the fire. Once satisfied, she put the diary back and went to bed.

Thomas, meanwhile, was cheating on Mary once again, this time with a parlor maid. 


End file.
